The Greymarch
by Red Squirrel Writer
Summary: In the far North, many leagues east of Redwall, a story is brewing. The worlds of two young beasts are about to be shattered forever. As chaos envelops their home, they will find themselves struggling to survive, fight back, and recover a legend...
1. Chapter 1

_Did your parents ever tell you that you were born to do great things? Mine did, a few times. _

_If only we knew how wrong they were back then. When you think about it, you come to realize something. We don't make great things happen. For the vast majority of beasts, it's great things that happen to us._

--

The Northlands felt unusually cheerful for this time of year, even though the seasons were passing into early spring. The bubbling and whistling of wayfaring brooks and vagrant breezes filled the air. Distant bird calls of hardy sparrows, delicate robins, and talented nightingales wove their way through the thick branches and tall trunks of the pines and other proud evergreens in the meandering stretch of Greymarch Forest. At least, that is what its more civilized inhabitants knew it as. Located east of the small mountain chain that Mossflower and its bordering lands backed up to, it was a little world of its own, and was quite happy to remain that way. The forest itself seemed content, as the trees reared upwards to the sky and scattered the sun like elderly giants stretching their stiff limbs, and the morning dew was not cold and messy, but dappled and soft. The days in Greymarch were, predictably, mostly grey. Today, however, the sun shone with the vibrant energy of a newborn, and rained down bright shafts of shimmering gold that splintered through the foliage. It was a day of peace and a morning of new promises.

There was, however, one sound in all the forest's expanse that did not quite fit in with the rest. In the small territory known as Birchshire, which was not too different from all the other places in the forest save a few choice meadows, the morning calm was rattled regularly by the sound of wood being struck. _Thock, thock, thock, _it went for a good while, guiding any listeners to a small home on the side of one of the main paths in and out of Birchtown, the main center of living and commerce in this particular shire. It was a simple house of no special architecture, with a typical slanted roof and walls of sturdy timber pushing into the little hillock that the house had been built into; the utilitarian nature of the abode spoke of the assistance of local moles and hedgehogs.

But it was no mole or hedgehog that made the strange sounds. It was in fact a male mouse, young but solid and buff nonetheless like most working mice his age. He had the look of a blacksmith if his muscles were any indication, but he was far too young and his paws were not nearly calloused enough for him to be considered a master, even though they were working hard with the axe handle they gripped tight. The mouse lifted the tool above his head and brought it crashing down on the logs without mercy. In the North, winters could be terribly harsh, and fuel for fire was just as essential as food and water. Even though he liked to avoid work where he could, this youngster was very much aware that life often hung by a thread wove only of hard labor.

The mouse split one final log and let the axhead rest on the verdant, cool ground, wiping a paw across his brow which was knotted with exertion. He lazily dropped his tool onto the ground and flumped onto his back, thankful for the cushion of healthy green grass surrounding his home. Dropping an arm over his eyes, he breathed in the stiff, bracing air of the Northlands, glad that his chores were done. Things piled up quickly in the North, and if one wasn't careful they'd quickly be overwhelmed by all they needed to do. His father had given him a long and impassioned lecture about duty and responsibility not two hours ago, which had motivated him to get through his own work before his mother shamed him by doing it herself. Well, he wouldn't have to worry about that for a while!

Pushing himself up on his sore arms, he headed into the house, not bothering to wipe his back free of dirt and dry grass. Before he could soil anything, however, his mother accosted him at the door, thrusting a large satchel at his nose, which twitched irritably.

"Raya!" she said with impatience. From inside the home came the unmistakable sounds of Raya's younger brother and sister fighting over leftover tarts. Raya wisely kept his mouth shut as his aggravated mother went on.

"Take this basket. I need you to go to market. There's a list inside, I just know you'll forget if I only tell you…"

Without any hesitation, Raya simply nodded and turned away to head around the house, when his mother grabbed his arm.

"Here," she said as she dropped a small satchel into the basket. "For doing the wood."

"Thank you, Mum!" Raya called before she ducked back inside and slammed the door shut, which abruptly swung open again.

"Thank me by remembering what's needed! There's some currency in the basket." She disappeared from view once more. Raya could faintly hear her restoring order with her blaring voice, and shook his head as he skirted their home and went onto the path. He opened the satchel, his eyes darting through the contents. There was a flask, which he quickly unplugged and took a swig from. Cider! At least his mother wasn't a complete overlord.

--

A little ways down the road, another young creature was only just now starting his day. It was nearly ten o'clock, and he planned on getting something done. As opposed to his mouse counterpart back up the trail, this youngster was possessed of a little more forethought. He had done his chores well before yesterday's dinner, and now had very little to do except wait and see what he was given today. He was currently lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering as all growing folk do about idle and trivial things. His ears perked up as he listened to his sisters just finishing breakfast (he had eaten a pawful of cheese and scones well before they did). But being a squirrel, he couldn't sit still for long.

Without warning he rolled over the side of his bed and sprang up, levering off the tough wooden floor his grandfather had laid down, threw on a sturdy old brown tunic over his bright, almost orange fur, jogged down into the lower part of the treehouse, and fully expected to see some kind of commotion erupting. But his mother Jayma kept an orderly house, proud to have well-behaved and modest children. "A quiet house is a safe house," she would say whenever somebeast remarked on her family.

"Not to mention stuffy," her husband would mutter, which always got him a swift yank on the tail.

Today Castus' mother was just finishing dusting down their newly finished wardrobe, courtesy of the father of the drey, Carus. As a mayster Carus often put his skills to work tidying up their home or creating new buildings for Birchtown, the only reasonably large, permanent settlement in the area.

"Castus? Castus, come here child," Jayma said without looking over her shoulder. "I need you to run to town and grab a few things. I'm feeling a little under the weather…"

"Of course. What d'you need?" Castus asked in a plain, responsible voice, as he often carried himself as a plain, responsible beast. His mother pointed outside with her feather duster.

"The list is next to the door. Take a few of the salt bags your father acquired; you're sure to get quite a bit for them. And be back before noon tomorrow! Be _careful _if you stay the night!" she called, as Castus was already heading out.

"Right, mum!" Castus answered, and without preamble, swung outside, and scrambled up another branch to their storage room, where the essentials were kept. He slung a few packs of salt around his shoulders, hefting the weight easily. He clambered down the trunk of their tree, and jogged past his sisters who were out picking berries from the bushes their parents had planted a few seasons back.

The eldest, Edwina, spoke to him as he went by, brushing her full and lustrous tail free of brambles as she stood up from her labor.

"Castus! Are you going to the market?"

"Aye!" the young male answered over his shoulder, skidding to a halt just short of the main path. He was never one to speak too much unless he had good reason.

"Make sure to get more watercress, if the otters have brought any fresh!"

"I will!"

"Ooo!" spoke up the second eldest sister, Aubrie, her deep brown eyes alight with youthful vivacity. "Castus, get some cabbages, too. I hate them, but Mother wants them for soup."

"I won't forget!" Castus turned away again before he was stopped once more.

"And some hazel nuts!"

"Yes!"

"And don't forget the scallions!"

"All _right!"_ Castus called back, a look of long-suffering on his face as he was finally free to swing out onto the path and head for the main village, twirling the salt packs around, careful to not look too eager.

In truth, despite his apparent neutrality about his new chore, he always liked going to the closest thing they had to a city. The village of Birchtown was a close-knit assortment of multi-story stone and wood buildings (some even three stories high!) packed to the brim with businesses like general stores, thatchers, carpenters, clothiers, and blacksmiths, and a few inns of a generally reputable nature. All in all, it was the premier gathering place for everybeast in Birchshire who wanted news, supplies, or a place to rest their head while traveling the few main roads that crossed through the shire.

Not that there _were _many on the road in the first place. Birchshire was spread over a large swath of Greymarch, but it was sparsely populated compared to other lands. Very little actually happened that was of real, earth-shattering importance, and only vague, whispered rumors of greater things like wars, treasure hunts, and Redwall ever even reached the borders of Birchshire. As a result, Castus, who was by nature a restless creature, was always eager to meet travelers and receive news of Elsewhere, drinking in the tales of bards who rested in the inns like they drank the fancy ales Birchshire was _almost_ famous for. The town of Ivybridge currently held _that_ inauspicious championship.

Hurrying along the path, Castus turned at the sound of a familiar voice.

"Fair day, Castus!" Raya shouted to the squirrel, jogging to meet him.

"Raya!" Castus replied, stopping short so his friend could catch up, his tail twitching merrily. "How are you today? Saddled with chores again? What are you in for?"

The mouse gave a despondent shrug.

"Helping Pa in the forge. All day. For a week. What about you?"

"Retrieving the incredible edible cabbage," Castus said, sticking his tongue out. "Among other things. Thought my chores were done yesterday, but no rest for the weary, as they say. Come on then! Maybe we'll see some traveling troubadours, or something else of interest for once in our lives."

As Castus started off at a brisk pace, Raya bent down to grab a head of grass to put between his teeth, and then set out beside his friend.

"Troubadours, eh?" he remarked with a cheeky roll of his eyes. "You say that _every time _we go to town, and _every time, _nothing of the sort even happens. Face it, Castus, everything exciting happens in the villages we trade with. Nobeast tries anything here. Which is all well and good for me. It means we'll die in peace and comfort like every other creature that came before us. And that is a cheerful thought."

Castus smiled wryly. Raya was always a very blunt and practical mouse. Sometimes Castus thought his friend would have been better off being born a hedgehog, or a mole.

"Well we do have a _market, _right? And everybeast who's anybeast goes to the market. Don't be so glum! You never know what a new day will bring."

Castus sighed wistfully as he thought of all the good tidings that could come upon them at market. Birchtown usually had little going on except the occasional fairs, so the market had gained a reputation as being the area where anybeast went when they wanted some variety in their otherwise monotonous and work-filled days. Almost all the inns were situated around it. Maybe they'd go into some of them to meet a few travelers. Maybe Theresa would be working in one, and she'd be their waitress. He could just imagine her sashaying over to their table, eyes sparkling and lustrous tail swishing back and forth, so hypnotically…

"Castus? Castus!" Raya jerked his friend out of his daydream, giving him a thump on his shoulder. "What are you rocking your head around like that for?"

"Oh, er, me? Nothing! Nothing at all. Just… doing my morning stretches," the abashed squirrel replied. It was silent for a while after that, and Castus reflected on previous town visits. There were very few days where he could say Theresa paid more than any small bit of attention to him, and still fewer when anything exciting happened, such as a group of soldiers going through town or one of the city lords inspecting the lands. But what memories they were when something of note did happen! It was almost like the world was trying to balance itself out, letting the boredom build and then slipping in a few wonderful happenstances of excitement and encouragement.

"You know I heard rumors of a badger traveling about?" Castus remarked. "A real live badger in our land!"

"As opposed to a fake dead one?" Raya answered with a smirk. Castus rolled his eyes.

"Oh, come on, Raya. You need an appreciation for news from the outside world. Badgers are big business!"

"They're certainly big."

"I mean, haven't you ever listened to the village elders or the town historians? Talking about Burnstripe the Second and his war to end vermin domination over the Quarry Road. Or chronicling Serno, Eric and Esta, who founded the Alliance of the Vale? Or even about how river pirates are acting up down south again? It's important to know all these things, Raya!"

"I just know it's important to know how to farm and build a house. Pa says that's how he caught Ma's eye, by building a good house."

Castus wrinkled his nose.

"Well I really don't think marriage has everything to do with the _house,_ Raya."

"Oh, no? What are you going to impress _your_ girl with, your extensive knowledge of times gone by? Not everybeast is as enamored with history and big battles as you are, Castus. _Assuming_ I ever find females as more than an annoyance to the rest of the world, why should I ask for anything special? We'll meet, we won't mind each other, and we'll enjoy being stuffed in the ground and stuck into Dark Forest together." Raya gave a petulant shrug. "But like I always say, Castus, girls are trouble. They never talk about anything except the weather and whether or not you think their fur is oh so well groomed. My sister is proof of that." He offered up a loud snort to that. "As if anyone can get their fur well groomed in damp places like Greymarch."

"Well, I wouldn't be so quick to judge," Castus replied with a calm, sly smile. "It's sometimes the most hard-hearted in old stories who fall the hardest in love."

Raya seemed rather discomfited by that.

"It is?" he asked, sounding a bit nervous. His nose and whiskers twitched with agitation. "Is it? No it isn't. You're lying! That doesn't make any sense at all, why, it sounds all backwards..."

While Raya was dealing with this paradox, Castus reflected once again on how he'd like to meet his romance. It'd start out calmly, slowly at first. Perhaps they'd meet in a garden. They'd talk under the moon, and perhaps not see each other for a while to reflect on one another. And gradually, slowly but surely...

She'd have green eyes. Theresa had green eyes.

"Do you think Janus will be guarding the gate today?" Raya interrupted his thoughts. Castus thought about being indignant for being so rudely cut in on, but at the thought of Janus he shuddered.

"He's always guarding the gate. It's the place where he causes the least trouble for the watch."

Despite being a tightly knit community, Birchtown had its share of bad apples. Janus was no exception. The portly shrew was of no particular renown. In fact, very few even bothered to notice him, and he had taken it upon himself to tell the world how dutiful and tough he was. Rumor said that he used to handle cargo on the southern riverlands, which was why he was so burly and gruff. But many just said that he was an ignored middle son of a poor family with a grudge against the world.

Whatever the reason, he sounded angry as Castus and Raya approached the gate, waving his spear this way and that. His fellow watchmen looked either too bored or indifferent to interfere and watched with vague bemusement as Janus attempted to impose himself on the youngsters.

"Hey now! What do we have here? Our own liddle poacher Raya and his skinny, shifty friend Castus the Mute. Off to market and leaving your mums with extra housework, eh?"

"Of course, Janus. Dodging heavy labor is what I live for," Raya said without hesitation, in stark contrast to Castus. Castus rarely said anything out of turn, which led to inevitable ribbing about how he refused to say anything too loud, otherwise he'd hurt his delicate ears. If Castus wanted excitement, Raya couldn't think of anything more exciting than getting clapped into irons for assaulting Janus. In his mind it would almost be worth it.

Castus turned his head away, trying to give Janus as little permission as possible to turn on him too. Raya never backed down from a good argument, and Janus was never easily dissuaded when he got like this. He could see it now, they'd get up in each other's faces again until they started tussling, and then he and the guards would have to pry them apart, and he would have to give Raya another lecture on how he wasn't supposed to cause trouble.

But before the tension could escalate, a quiet, slightly nasal voice interrupted from behind the mouse.

"Cut that business out, Janus."

The surly shrew turned about to reveal a dark eyed, tough bodied river vole with sleek brown fur standing in the gate, arms crossed over his strong chest.

"Leave 'em be, Janus," he said with a shake of his head. "You're in a bad mood, we all know that. But we 'ave a fair in two weeks. Lighten up, will you? We're gonna get more beasts comin', an' most of 'em will _need _proper inspectin'."

Janus bristled. He never liked the handsome, fair-minded vole (considering him very much a soft-hearted creature with too much bravery for his size) almost as much as he didn't like everybody else. "This is official militia business, Hal-!"

"It's a waste of time an' you know it. Save your energy an' your bad temper for real trouble, mate."

Janus' nostrils flared, but he stepped aside and waved Castus and Raya on through. The other guards sighed with relief, glad that they didn't have to shift themselves to break up a fight today. With a simple nod to the youngsters, Halen turned and walked away.

"Halen thinks he's such a hero," Raya muttered as they headed into town, hurrying away from Janus and all the trouble.

"He's not that bad, once you get to know him," Castus answered shortly. He was always a believer in the good in beasts. Something that Raya found annoying. Whenever Castus talked like that, it made his tail curl in a manner most uncomfortable.

"He barely even talks! He's like a _tree._ A big, handsome, _dumb _tree. Not that I don't prefer him to Janus. Him, I'd like to tar and feather."

"I really doubt getting arrested will improve relations between you two," Castus reprimanded his friend at once. "Besides, he only picks on us because of _you._ That whole business last season with the dead fish and the wagon of wet grass..."

"It was funny, and that's all that matters! Besides, Janus needs to be taken down a couple pegs. Anyway, what're we here for again?"

"Food, Raya. And I-"

Castus stopped suddenly, ears up and tail twitching. Raya stared uncomfortably, feeling his tail curl again. His squirrel friend was almost completely still, head up and nose out, almost as if he was trying to sniff out a hidden treasure.

"Do you hear that?" he whispered. Raya turned his wide ears to the wind, but couldn't pick up anything.

"No."

"It's music!" Castus blurted out excitedly, then grabbed Raya's arm and began yanking him to the market square.

"Castus wait, I- ack!"

Castus, though lithe and athletic compared to his barrel chested, stout mouse friend, was still fit and hearty as befitting a growing male of his age. He didn't have much trouble tugging Raya along behind him, even while the mouse protested vociferously. But then, through his own shouting and the milling about of the crowds, Raya began to hear it himself. There was the unmistakable drone of a pipe, the plucking of a lute, and the beat of a drum. Suddenly his footpaws stopped resisting and began heading towards the music.

"We must have visitors," he said, somewhat entranced. Castus was the only beast who knew it, but Raya was a music lover. All of a sudden he began sincerely missing the reed flute he had left at home. Practicing with it was one of the few things he was dedicated to, and he was keenly feeling its absence on his hip.

"Of course we have visitors," Castus said breathlessly as they pressed into the crowds, hardly noticing when Raya was ripped from his grasp by the press of bodies who were all pressing together to get a look at the show. "That must be why it's so busy... the fair coming up is attracting more merchants! Isn't it exciting?"

"Not really," Raya growled as he stepped on another squirrel's tail to move him out of the way and pushed against a fat volewife. He hated crowds. "One side, you wretches! Dutiful youngsters coming through!"

Castus didn't seem to notice. His squirrel agility allowed him to slip between any gap he could find. In contrast to Raya, he was loving all of this. Merchants from far-off lands with stories of war and adventure. The fair with all its colors and activities. Oh, to be able to travel. To wander unknown roads and meet new creatures. To learn to write and read ancient histories. Now, today perhaps, he might actually be a part of those histories, or at least go home with more stories and pretend he could have been. In any case, he finally found himself at the front of the crowd with only one thought on his mind:

_At last, something _exciting_ is going to happen..._

_--_

A/N: I do not own Redwall. Brian Jacques does. I own all original characters appearing in this story.


	2. Chapter 2

1The players were loud and whimsical, dressed in fine, expensive colors and possessed of a playful mood that was downright infectious. By their garb and the style of their music they had come from the south, which with its many rivers and tributaries was known as a place of many colliding tribes and cultures. Truly they had come a long way just to get food and bedding for their music. Castus and Raya stood entranced by the gamboling and prancing and wonderful noise, but Raya by far was the more interested in staying behind for the entire performance. The young mouse never failed to have an ear for music, even if he appreciated it much more than he could play it himself. Besides that, there was hardly ever time to simply sit back and enjoy something like a musical interlude here in the North. These troubadours provided a singular opportunity: to enjoy music from far, far away, to relax and take a few minutes just to be content with life, and to hear news from a world that was far wider and more exciting than Birchtown could ever hope to be. There was just one small problem with the players, one that soon had Castus furrowing his brow and crossing his arms, unwittingly imitating many others in the crowd. Something was off about this group...

Ah, yes. They were _vermin _troubadours.

Vermin were a common sight in Greymarch; even near Birchtown itself there were a couple of river rat tribes and individual vermin families, but more often than not there was an unspoken truce: both sides simply left each other alone and tried not to make trouble. Life in the North was harsh enough without everybeast having to worry about killing each other. There were of course the occasional border disputes and inevitable occurrences of banditry, but it simply didn't make sense for any vermin leader to gather a horde and lay waste to land he needed to farm and forage instead; Greymarch was nothing like Southsward or Mossflower, places of green and plenty, where the rain was warm and the soil always dark. But it was home, and nobeast liked a conflict in their own home.

But these vermin seemed different. They actually had clothes one needed treasure and bounty and the like to purchase. They weren't local. They could be trouble.

"Probably stole those instruments from honest musicians," Castus heard a nearby otter mutter to his friend, who nodded sagely before both of them went about their business. It certainly was an odd sight. Why would vermin just prance into Birchtown and play just for the amusement of the locals? It didn't make much sense. Then again, they _were_ foreigners. Perhaps they just didn't understand how things worked. Castus began looking around at the players themselves, Raya still too enchanted by the music to pay attention.

They were a mix of ferrets and stoats, with a slim vixen dancing about spanking a tambourine (the deeper effect was of course lost on the woodlander crowd). Their wagons were parked in a small circle on the north end of the market place. There sat the leaders of the troupe: a burly weasel and another fox, who was looking all too conspicuous with his grey cloak around his shoulders, smoking a pipe and watching the rest of the town go by. The majority of the inhabitants of Birchtown made it a point to lift their noses at the vermin and go by without saying anything, because it was how vermin would likely treat them in _their _villages. Business was only done where it was necessary. But the fox didn't seem to mind. In fact, he was smiling like a fool, laughing at something. He was having a conversation with another beast, not the weasel, no, this one was shorter, look _around _the wagon wheel. It was a mouse! Castus gaped at the sight. A mouse talking so freely with a stranger, a fox no less? And that was no ordinary mouse.

"Mayor Trimble?" he whispered to himself, before he felt Raya snag his arm and yank him back.

"Watch it, Castus! You're getting in the way of the performance."

Castus shook himself and went back into the crowds.

"Come on, Raya. We've got to get our chores done if we want to stay the night."

"But I want to... oh, fine." The two friends hurried away from the odd scene, Castus wearing a look of confusion and incredulity. They approached the food stands in silence, until Raya could hold it back no more.

"I liked the pipes the best," he remarked.

"Did you see Trimble talking to the fox?" Castus answered, talking over his friend. Raya scrunched up his nose, a sure sign of confusion in the mouse.

"What? Trimble? No. He doesn't like strangers. Why would he be talking to one of them?"

"Well not just that, he was talking to a _fox!"_

Raya blinked a couple of times. They had never had any major infractions with vermin, so he never really thought about them very much.

"So?" he answered plainly.

"So," Castus said, growing a little impatient, "the mayor never talks to strangers or to vermin! Strange vermin just doesn't add up."

"Well, what's it to us?" Raya said as he began picking out some radishes.

"Raya, think!" Castsus reprimanded his friend, side-stepping along the vegetable racks, hiding his suspicions underneath vendor keepers belting out their items. "Why would southern vermin come all the way up here, just to play music? And we would have heard something before they even arrived, wouldn't we? It's the _south _all the big things happen in."

"Maybe they just wanted to travel," Raya said with a shrug.

"Maybe they _know_ something we don't!"

Raya suddenly stood up straight and placed a paw on his friend's chest.

"Castus, stop right there, I know what you're thinking. It's not going to work out. There's no big story unfolding here. Just a little strange happening. You hear me? Get your crazy ideas out of your head before you get yourself into trouble."

Castus' brow furrowed as he thought back on all the times Raya had acted impetuously.

"But... _you're _the one who's always getting us-"

"I mean _real _trouble, Castus," Raya insisted. "Trust me, I _know _the difference. And messing with these vermin will be _real _trouble. Just let them pass on through and let the mayor have his fun."

"But he _never _has fun, Raya!" Castus pleaded. "He's a grouchy old... well. Mum says I shouldn't talk about a beast behind his back, but you know what I mean."

"I do. And I think it best if you just let it go."

Castus huffed.

"Fine, Raya. Come on, I see some nice looking cabbage over yonder..."

The rest of the day passed, thankfully, uneventfully. Castus did not bring up the vermin again, but as the day wore on, even as they engaged in a few games set up by a visiting holt of otters, his mind always wandered back to the vermin. They weren't supposed to be here. Somehow, he just knew it. This wasn't just a normal visit. The sight of the mayor acting like he had known that fox for seasons put him on edge. And he kept seeing members of the troupe wandering around after their performance. Once, he spotted the weasel wandering about in the square. He hadn't seemed to have a set goal in mind. He was simply wandering around, looking at the sights, staring at all the townbeasts like he had nothing better to do. But he wasn't smiling, that was the worst thing. He just... stared. Almost like he was _studying _the place rather than enjoying it. Castus stood up from where he was and very nearly walked right over to confront him, but just then he felt a tug on his sleeve, and a little otter cub was pleading that he come over and play rings with the others.

Castus, of course, had no choice but to accept.

But as he threw rings and laughed with the little ones, he couldn't shake the odd feeling that their town had been infiltrated rather than visited. _He _knew it was nothing normal and something to investigate. The fox was the worst, he thought. He hardly moved, and Castus never saw him walking around, but he seemed to just... _appear _out of thin air, standing at a corner or smoking his pipe on a barrel, and it always seemed to be right near where Castus and Raya were. To be frank, it was downright frightening to Castus. He struggled to convince himself that he was just being too emotional. The excitement of the upcoming fair and the sudden arrival of foreigners had rattled his mind and got him chasing shadows. Even then, once or twice, he couldn't help but mention his misgivings to his friend. But Raya remained unflappable and wouldn't have any of it, even as the sun began to set and the games were over.

They were walking towards one of the inns, called "The Traveling Vine." The crowds had begun to thin out; the majority of beasts were off to drink and socialize, mothers were shooing children to bed, travelers settling down to pass out stories and get a soft pillow under their heads.

Castus, out of the corner of his eye, saw the fox yet again, his grey cloak fading into the failing light. He was heading right for town hall, the vixen and a couple others in tow. Woodlanders studiously avoided them, making a path for them just so they didn't get too close to each other.

"Raya, look," Castus tried one more time, but then the sturdy mouse began showing more of his mother's side, turning on Castus with an impatient glare.

"Look Castus, I'm _tired_ of hearing this all the live long day! I _know _they're vermin, and I know nobeast likes _seeing _vermin, and I know vermin don't like _us."_

He put his paws on his hips in a decisive manner.

"But I promise you, Castus, if you keep going on and on about how there's some plot brewing in Birchtown, it'll be you I tar and feather! You know the rules in Greymarch. You leave them alone, and they don't cause us trouble. It's how things have always been, and always will be. You go off sticking your nose into the mayor's business and we're all going to pay for it! It's all those stories you hear, Castus, none of them _happen _around here. Only in the villages we trade with, or down south. You're looking for Fate or heroism or whatever where there isn't any!"

Castus was cowed by his friend's outburst and hung his head, his tail drooping and his bag of groceries flopping to the ground.

"Well... you're probably right, Raya. Nothing really exciting is happening. As usual."

Raya patted his shoulder.

"Look, I don't mean to make you feel bad, buddy! It's just... I don't want you getting in over your head. That's _my _job."

He flashed a roguish grin. "Now, come on, let's get some cider. Cider makes _everything _feel better."

--

It was night.

The area around Birchtown was lit only by the stars above, competing for space in the sky with the ever present grey clouds that dropped freezing rain on the North. The streets were mostly empty, save for a couple drunkards wandering around and singing bawdy songs. Lights were still on in many windows. Most notably, town hall and the various inns scattered around town. Otherwise, vendors were closed down, shops were boarded up, and craftbeasts had set aside their tools.

Inside The Traveling Vine, drink was still flowing and beasts were still talking as if the day had never ended.

Raya was at the bar, competing in an insult contest with a couple of moles while others looked on, laughing and cheering at an especially witty turn of phrase. It was hard to tell who was winning, since Raya kept shouting over the moles, and the moles' accents were so thick it was almost gibberish. There was nobeast to shoo Raya away and say that only adults could sit here. Only his mother would do that, and his father would only berate him for using the language he was now. It was how youngsters were accepted by the wider circle of adults: they sat down and learned at their betters' sides through experience, played skipstones, and discussed business or the outside world. Raya was loving it, this feel of independence and the taste of cider on his tongue. He was in his element. All the fun with no real danger. He was a village beast before anything else.

Castus sat in the recess of the wide window at the front of the establishment, thinking about his father.

He was a strong and steady beast, Carus was. He and Raya's father were, as he understood it, traveling with one of Birchtown's own trade caravans, hawking their wares in other villages and tribes and whoever else would take notice. He wondered if his father was visiting Icemoat Keep, the stone fortress established seasons ago by a descendant of Serno, one of the Three. Carus had been away for a week now. It was a little worrying, generally he'd have sent tidings. But being a mayster and one on the move was tiring work. He probably was just having a hard time getting letters back through all his work. Castus often missed his father, the only other male besides Raya he felt close to. Whenever something terrible happened, he never felt embarrassed to go and talk to him.

But he wasn't here to advise him in how best to handle vermin. Especially foreign vermin. He wanted to go and investigate, maybe uncover something worthwhile... but perhaps Raya was right. Maybe he was just imagining things. He just hoped that something real and exciting would happen. But that was how Castus worked, and deep down, he was rather ashamed of himself for only going after things that weren't so heroic after all. He loved the thought of adventure... as long as he didn't have to go too far. He thrilled to the idea of fighting in a shield wall... if the shield was big enough. He got his dander up about being a hero as long as he didn't have to do anything too risky.

He had thought this occasion would change that. He'd finally be able to do something that was worth talking about. But no. Alas, it was not to be.

Castus turned an ear to the patrons of the inn. One burly otter was conversing nearby.

"I'll say one thing, the mayor ain't got 'is head on straight! What's 'e doin', invitin' strange vermin into town? And into the hall of all places! I tell you, mate, somethin' fishy is goin' on, by my affidavit."

Castus smirked. So he wasn't totally crazy. Other beasts thought the same as he. But the town hall? Why there? Was the mayor already finding them that friendly?

Castus slumped against the wall again. He supposed he'd never find out, and the reason was probably not worth knowing anyway.

He suddenly sat up a little straighter when he saw the fox again. His grey cloak barely moved, even though he was in a hurry. The weasel came up from the other side of the street. They conversed in hushed tones, looking urgent, and then the fox said something rather angry. They left it at that and headed straight for town hall.

Castus, without a thought or rational plan, was up in an instant, grabbing Raya by the shoulder.

"Steady on, Castus!" his friend said as he pulled away from all the fun.

"We need to go to the town hall," Castus said quickly. "I don't know why, but we need to go take a peek inside."

"Castus, you know we're not allowed around there except on official business..." Raya tried to protest, but Castus was pulling him towards the door.

"Come on," he insisted. "Something _is _going on, Raya. I know it. And we're _going_ to find out what."

--

A/N: I hope that wasn't too abrupt a transition from friendly village meandering to Mission Impossible.

Castus is just an interesting creature, isn't he? Desperately wants to find something that'll make him a hero, but he's scared of real risk. Let's hope he's not getting in over his head.


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you sure we can't at least finish dinner first?" Raya asked as Castus hauled him out of the inn by the arm.

"It'll still be there when we get back," the squirrel murmured under his breath, looking back and forth, as if keeping an eye out for an ambush. Raya rolled his eyes and stepped out visibly into the street, leaving Castus a little embarrassed as he tried to keep to the shadows.

"You know we're going to get in trouble for snooping around town hall," Raya remarked.

"Oh," Castus replied with insipid sarcasm, a little bitter that Raya thought so little of his plan, "I never knew you were such a law-abiding citizen."

"I'm just warning you, Castus! I have no qualms with doing things that get us into a mess, because you're the one who always got us out. I have no idea how we're going to keep out of trouble if _you're _the one getting us _into it."_

Castus huffed and came back into the street, anxiously watching town hall as its high arched entrance loomed closer. Maybe Raya was right, but he did have a very bad feeling about all this. The mayor just wasn't supposed to be friendly with vermin; it wasn't part of his character. To let them into town hall, from which was coming the sounds of merriment and music making, was unthinkable. Their town hall had started as a simple longhouse when Birchtown was nothing more than a gathering of mice and hedgehogs, banding together against the cold and wandering vermin who were still a problem so many seasons ago. Now it had been expanded and built upon into the imposing, grounding structure it was now. Always used for important meetings and the center of festivals alike, neither Castus nor Raya could fathom why, exactly, it was now being offered as a place of shelter to vermin.

It wasn't that Raya liked vermin. In fact, he just didn't care about them. His great grandfather had been killed by a stoat, when the mouse had caught a fish and the stoat decided he was too lazy to get one himself. His parents had always impressed on him that vermin, as a whole were distasteful and conceited and altogether not trustworthy. But Raya had only met three vermin in his whole life (that is, come close enough to speak to them and had). One was a rat who was running around selling linen woven from flax. Another was a grouchy old weasel who claimed she was a seer and had tried to read Raya's paw. That time, he was only a few seasons old, and Castus had bet that he wouldn't be able to stand ten seconds in front of the seer without running away from the smell, let alone the frightening, gnarled teeth and wicked, wicked voice.

Raya had counted to exactly eleven seconds before ripping his paw out of the seer's grasp and running for it.

The third vermin? That had gotten him a few stripes over the back. Castus, with his high minded morals, had sat back and watched innocently while Raya got inebriated for the first time in his life in one of Birchtown's taverns (they had snuck in entirely without permission), and miraculously managed to knock out an angry rat with a single punch. Nobeast had said it, but even the rat's friends had been impressed, and dragged their unconscious mate outside before he could recover and slit Raya's throat.

Now, however, now... Raya could smell trouble wafting up through the crack in the doorway, along with the stinging scent of pipe smoke, and the alluring odor of apple pies and flan twisting into the pungent smell of cider on the wind. Raya did so love cider. But he could also sense the tang of anxiety. Why, though? He had been the one to try and convince Castus that this wasn't worth it, and now he could sense, he could feel, he could _smell _something going on in there. But on he went, back straight and chin up (because even if Raya was incorrigible, he had impeccable posture), following Castus even though they were nearly side-by-side.

Raya always followed Castus, in the end. It wasn't as though they always listened to each other, or that Raya was Castus' lackey. But Castus had a good head on his shoulders. Castus was respectable. Raya knew how to do something exciting, like get drunk and beat down rats or prank Janus the guard, or swipe a couple apples here and there and mouth off to the mayor, breaking all the rules that didn't matter in the long run. But whenever Castus did something, or tried to keep Raya _from _doing something, it always satisfied some moral code, or fell in line with what the hero of the story would do, always finishing his chores and sticking up for Raya when it counted. That squirrel had his mind set on the big picture. When he did something, he did it right. Always, _always, _Castus knew the _right_ thing to do, even if it wasn't the smart thing. And Raya could do nothing but respect him for that.

So now Raya knew why they were going to town hall. Because there was mischief on the air, and Castus was going to be the one to sniff it out. He just wished it wasn't quite so obvious and potentially dangerous.

Castus was walking furtively beside Raya, casting glances here and there, afraid that they'd be caught. Even when he was being a hero, he was worried that he'd do wrong by somebeast or hurt himself inadvertantly, which kept him from being as great and bold as he could be. Raya respected him for that, too.

But eventually they came to the town hall, silent and conspicuously sneaky like all youngsters were when they were breaking the rules and didn't want to look obvious about it. Castus peeked in through the barely open door, and saw a bunch of carousing woodlanders, but no vermin. Several town elders were smoking and playing skipstones, discussing recent events in their quietly irascible manners. No sign of vermin.

Castus shook his head as he turned back to Raya.

"They must be further in," he said quietly, as if those inside could hear them.

"What, back in the meeting hall?" Raya said, wrinkling his nose. "What could they have to be meeting about?"

"I don't know. But I want to find out," Castus said, heading around the side of the hall, dodging a few gossiping molewives who were out for a late stroll. Raya followed almost obediently behind him.

There were no windows as far back as the meeting hall, with the only ways in being the chimneys and the back entrance, which was almost always locked. In the meeting hall, elders and the mayor and leaders of different tribes from around Greymarch would meet and discuss important things that affected the ones who living in Birchshire and its surrounding areas, and almost nobeast was allowed in when a meeting was in session, save those who were supposed to be there. Castus and Raya did not number among the "supposed to be bes."

Castus did notice that this side of town was a little busier, and seemed flummoxed as to how to make himself look busy. Raya took care of that by snatching a couple apples from a nearby barrel and tossing one to the squirrel. The mouse took a hearty bite and leaned on the wall of the building while Castus nibbled nervously on his share.

"So what do you think they're doing in there?" Raya asked. Castus shrugged.

"No clue. And with the back door locked there's really no way inside..." He leaned on the wall next to Raya and suddenly noticed the apple he was chewing on.

"Uh... these aren't ours-"

"If you eat fast, nobody will notice," Raya advised, and took another large chomp. Castus only shook his head and kept eating, wondering how exactly they were to get inside without getting noticed. That, and he wanted to do it legally. Raya noticed his peering at the town hall and shook his head.

"You're really that determined to get in?" he asked.

"Of course," Castus said without hesitation, chewing through a mouthful of apple. "There's something wrong about this meeting, Raya."

The mouse peered around the edge of the roof, and suddenly an idea struck him. The town hall was divided into two sections: the first being the one they had passed, a large single story area that had been built during the founding of Birchtown, only about seven tail lengths off the ground (as the mouse grows his tail). The second section, which they were standing next to, was a little wider and taller and held the meeting hall. It had a small attic that spread across half the ceiling and served as something of a second floor, though it was only used for storage. That would be where Castus could gain entrance.

"Then go through the roof," Raya said easily. Castus dropped his apple and sputtered.

"Wha... the roof?" he squeaked, waving his tail anxiously. "Are you serious, Raya?"

"Of course I am. It's just thatch over the beams, we haven't gotten a shipment of plaster yet. That's for all the rich southern folk. You can be in and out before anybeast even knows you're there."

Castus' mouth levered open and shut like a fish, staring up at the hall. It was a long way up... of course, he was a squirrel, he was not scared of heights, but his trepidation at being a spy was suddenly starting to worm its way into his system.

"Well... if that's the only way," he said, and set his jaw.

"It is," Raya confirmed with a nod. "Not to mention the safest. No way they'll notice you while you're up there, they'll be too busy drinking and smoking to lift their heads."

Castus didn't move. He was still staring up at the roof, not even wondering how he was going to get up there. He was debating whether or not he'd actually be able to do this, now that it came to it. It was very dangerous, and rather high up, and if he was caught, there would be no mercy, from mother or from the mayor...

Raya interrupted him with a kick in the tail. "Well?!" he said quickly. "Go on! I'll keep watch down here." Castus squawked with indignation, but he was already clambering up onto the barrels that were standing upright next to the wall, grabbing onto a protruding piece of timber. He hefted himself up with the natural agility of squirrel kind and was trotting along the rim of the rooftop, keeping his arms and tail out for balance.

"Is anyone coming?" he asked in a harsh whisper.

"No! Keep going!" Raya said, anxiously following along from below. He didn't envy Castus' ability to keep his balance so perfectly. Trees were for squirrels, and that was that.

Castus soon reached the next section and hopped up onto that with barely a crunch of thatch under his paws. He halted, staring down at the roof beneath him.

"What are you waiting for?" Raya asked, letting his voice get a little louder so he could reach the squirrel's ears. The noise from inside would surely drown him out.

"I'm not too sure this is a good idea!" Castus called back.

"Will you hurry up?!" Raya snapped impatiently. "Somebeast is bound to come around sooner or later, and you're already up there!"

Castus heaved a dejected sigh and set to work breaking into his own town hall. Of course he wanted to know what was going on inside, but this had to have been extremely illegal. The town charter would find some terrible punishment for them both, he was certain of it. But there was no turning back now.

And, despite all his reservations, the town could very likely be in some kind of danger. Castus was willing to put aside his scruples for the time being if it meant keeping his loved ones safe.

Presently he had cleared away a small hole, and pulled up the latticework of sticks that kept the thatch secure over the larger support beams, wincing with each loud snap that accompanied his ponderous tugging.

"Hurry up!" he heard Raya urge him. Castus almost turned about to shout at him, but thought better of it. He had to keep his balance; crashing now would alert everybeast inside. He felt a rush of excitement dash through his body as he dropped into the hole, landing the near seven foot drop like a true tree whiffler, arms spread to evenly distribute his weight and lessen the impact. The boards did not even creak beneath his steady footing. He remained there, noiseless and immobile, arms out. He had gotten this far, and the landing had been _perfect._ He distinctly heard a multitude of voices from the assembly beneath him.

In that clandestine, private moment, in the heat of his triumphant landing and silent entry, Castus felt just a little bit closer to the heroes in his stories.

He found himself surrounded by storage boxes and old desks that were packed to the brim with scrolls. Ledgers and duty records gathered dust in bookcases, resting next to dried food goods, all waiting for a time when somebeast would scramble up the staircase and find a use for them all over again. Castus crept up to the edge of the platform and looked down. The storage platform overlooked the meeting room itself, which held a small number of vermin smoking pipes and drinking. As Castus peered over the edge, frightened half to death that the slightest noise would give him away, he also noticed the fox and the vixen had arrived, and were already engaged in talking to the mayor. He turned his ears downward and listened.

"But still," mayor Trimble said snappishly, "there's no reason... no reason at all. You're risking everything by showing yourself so openly!"

The fox, who had just finished seating himself on a chair with his cloak thrown over it at as a cushion, set his footpaws up on the table. His thick, bushy tail dangled beside him, swinging lazily.

"Mister mayor," he said, his voice all oil and silk with a vague air of condescension, as befitting a sly fox, "your quaint little establishment just knows a group of vermin has come calling for food and frolic. They suspect nothing! Be glad we decided to even take the time to warn you. Our timetable has been moved up significantly given recent events."

Trimble puffed out his chest and tried to look as lordly as his position, which was difficult given his situation. The vermin surrounding him were not so cheerful and gay now. They all wore sullen and dangerous expressions.

"Now see here. Birchtown has always kept to itself. You can't tell me that just because-"

"It's out of my paws, mayor," the fox said flatly, staring Trimble right in the eyes. Castus couldn't see it, but his golden eyes flashed to the frightened mouse.

"I don't give a swan's hoot about what your town wants. I'm only here to give you the news. Just be glad you actually have some forewarning. You agreed to this. You were happy. The burden of your responsibilities has weighed on you long enough, you said. You never wanted to be here. Now that you have a chance to leave, you want to act all high and mighty? I'm not the one with my tail in a knot."

Mayor Trimble sputtered, and then sank back into a disconsolate state. Castus' eyes narrowed. That fox had no right to threaten the mayor like this!

"I still really don't think you should have come so soon," said Trimble after a long moment of silence, wringing his paws. "I mean, it is a little abrupt, isn't it?"

The fox smiled suddenly, his eyes glinting in the firelight as he poured himself a mug of ale and the vixen, who drank greedily of it.

"Now now, mister mayor. It's not as though we actually have control over what goes on in the wider world surrounding this peaceful hamlet of yours. We do have a great many things to consider. The safety of your families is not the least of which. I'm just a messenger, after all, don't blame me."

"Well, I just... I mean... what if they take it too far?" the mayor squeaked, looking panicky and ridden with guilt. Castus squinted at his odd behavior. The mayor had never seemed half so shaky before, even for a mouse. Something strange really was happening. He had been right all along! But the look in the fox's eyes, the easy, conceited way in which he carried himself, made him wish differently. His paws tightened on the edge of the platform in clear illustration of his anxiety.

"Of course they're going to take it too far. That's why we have our plan laid out. At least this way, some of you make it out alive. Just be glad we aren't leaving you to their mercy."

Castus stifled a gasp and rested his head on the platform, fighting down the urge to leap down the staircase and demand to know what was going on. What did he mean, get out alive? Leave them at whose mercy? And why only some? Thoughts of his mother and sisters in danger swirled in a sudden frenzy. He forced himself to keep listening, wondering what the poor mayor had gotten himself into.

"In any case... let's not make tonight glum. Eat, drink, and be merry!"

The vermin went at it with a will, and as the mayor sat down, playing with his ears, and his vermin troupe struck up a bawdy drinking song, the fox lifted his mug and crossed arms with the vixen, and they drank out of each other's mugs. The fox hid a vicious smile as he spoke into his drink.

"For tomorrow... they all die."

The vixen smiled coquettishly, eyes glinting.

"I love it when you talk that way..."

Castus hadn't heard a lot, but he had heard enough. The mayor was striking some kind of agreement with these vermin, and it meant something bad for the town. But who could he warn? Who would believe him? Would they act in time to save anybeast? Sudden fear gripped him. This was far more than he had bargained for. Now that it came to it, he wasn't feeling half so bold as he had told himself he would.

So, instead of running of and shouting the news, Castus laid his tail on the floor and cringed into the platform, unsure of everything.

It was about then that a commotion interrupted the carousing. The door was swung wide open and the burly weasel strode in, carting a struggling mouse behind him. Castus gasped loudly and almost shouted. It was Raya.

"'E was snoopin' around the door. Probably swipin' goodies right from under our noses while we gossiped."

"Lay off, you miserable excuse for a pin-headed otter!" Raya shouted, wrestling ineffectually with the weasel's vice-like grip.

"Spying?" the mayor squeaked frightfully, jumping out of his seat. Raya fixed him with a glare.

"Never said anything about spying, mister mayor sir," he muttered. "Less you have something I'd like to snitch on."

"Quiet, rodent!" the weasel barked into his face. Castus almost jumped up from his perch, then sat back down, his mind a whirlwind of panic.

_Raya, you fool, they're going to kill you, why didn't you stay hidden, I've got to do something, they'll kill me too, why didn't you just run and hide!_

The fox, who had previously been sitting very calmly, suddenly swung his footpaws off his table and swung around to face the mouse.

"Now, now, let's not all get into a huff," he said, voice silken smooth. Castus almost jumped up again, but thought better of it. If he leaped down from the ceiling, he'd be caught for spying, and then what? No, he had to leave. He had to get out and come in the regular way... He sprang up without hesitation and, in two swift jumps off a desk and up to the lattice, he was scrambling through the hole in the ceiling.

Raya was alone with the fox, who was standing up and walking towards him.

"I'm sure there's just been some misunderstanding," he said calmly.

"Only misunderstanding is why you're standing in one of our hallowed halls!" Raya spat, feeling a sudden rush of hate. He didn't quite know why, but this fox just rubbed him the wrong way. His opponent on the other paw didn't seem fazed.

"We're here because we were invited, child. Your mayor was kind enough to simply allow us to shelter here, so impressed he was by our playing. Right, mayor?"

Trimble nodded fretfully, earning him a confused glare from Raya. He struggled a bit more, making the weasel tighten his grip.

"Release him, Gavril," the fox commanded, and the weasel, grudgingly, let him be. Raya stumbled forward and dusted off his tunic, sniffing at the weasel, who glared daggers at him.

"So, Raya," the mayor mumbled, remembering him from all the times the young mouse had caused trouble. "What... exactly were you doing here?"

"Swipin' apples, like stone-head back there said," Raya answered, crossing his arms.

"And the door was closed?" Trimble asked apprehensively. Raya shifted uncomfortably.

"Yeah... why?"

"No reason," the mayor snapped, his gaze steady and his eyes wide with fear. "You best be going now, don't you think? Keep the apples. They're good for the stomach."

Raya blinked slowly and began to turn away, unease twisting his stomach. Gavril suddenly stepped in his way.

"Hold on there, mousie," he said dangerously. "I think we need some proof that you aren't gonna go and start spreading rumors. I don't think I really believe that he was just looking for apples."

Raya straightened up fulsomely. "What, your head too thick to hear what common sense is saying? Do I look like the type who'd be running around peeking into open doors?"

"You tell me," the weasel growled, looming over the mouse. Even Raya was forced to take a cautious step back.

But before the situation could explode, Castus came bursting in.

"Raya! There you are!" he said, locking his eyes on the mouse and walking straight towards him, tail flared out behind him. He didn't look at the mayor, or the fox, or any of the vermin. He just walked in, grabbed Raya's arm, and began marching out, speaking almost comically quickly.

"Well okay, enough apples for tonight I suppose, well we gotta be going, sorry mayor, we'll pay you back, have fun gentlebeasts goodbye!"

The door closed behind them. Mayor Trimble let his breath out in a heaving sigh. The fox, his gaze now harsh and cold, turned to him.

"They'll be trouble," he said simply. Trimble's mouth worked open and closed several times as the implications sank in.

"N... no. No! Please, hold on. They're... they're troublemakers, yes, but... but they're smart lads. I know them! They won't tell a soul, I swear! You mustn't... you swore you'd only pick up the stragglers!"

"Well," the fox said, with a needle thin smile, "it's a shame they're about fall behind then, isn't it?"

Trimble knew the fox was implacable. He turned away, paws over his snout, his body shivering like a leaf in the wind. He hadn't meant it to end like this. He had to do something, say something, anything. The fox's ice cold voice cut into his thoughts, as if he had read his mind.

"It's only those two and a few more, mister mayor," he said calmly, as though it were no great deal. "Not enough to alert the town. They'll be sure to exile you, or worse, knowing you're part of this. They'll need somebeast to lead them during the coming storm, after all. A beast of _honor _and _integrity."_

His mocking tone was clear enough. Trimble collapsed into a chair, curled into himself, overcome with shame . The fox smiled maliciously and turned to the vixen, who stood up and grasped his arm.

"You need something, fearless leader?" she purred.

The fox stared levelly at her, golden eyes glinting with danger and affection, a frightening combination.

"Take Gavril and alert our scouts. Those two looked panicked. They'll be scuttling home to their mothers first thing on the morrow... make sure they never reach them."


	4. Chapter 4

1A/N: Oh, man, oh, man. I am so sorry I took so long to update! But you know, decisions about the future and all. College getting in the way of my leisure time! Bwargh! Anyway. I hope you all like this chapter. It's got a great ending. Just as a note... remember that Castus' fur is a little odd. It's very light, almost a sort of orangey red color. Not a big deal to the other characters, but I just think it's a good color for him.

I want to specially thank my reviewers thus far: Maran Zelde, too far removed with time, JadeTeaLeaf, one of my newest favorite writers, Scyphi, whose curiosity will kill my writer's block, Foeseeker, whose enthusiasm keeps me going, and Reynoi, whose hopes will soon be answered. On with adventure!

--

In the Traveling Vine, Castus lay in a rented bed, worried and disoriented, and far too awake for his own good. He had thrown his blankets off in his twisting and turning, and they lay in a heap on the floor. He couldn't stop thinking about what he had heard in the town hall. At first, he had been against sleeping in town, but the sun had already gone below the horizon when they got back to the inn. Raya brought to the fore the danger of traveling the road outside of Birchtown at night. They were only a couple hours' walk down the road at a fast pace, but if the vermin decided to ambush them, they would stand no chance of help or discovery. So, with great hesitation, they had decided to spend the night in the inn, where there were a number of friendly woodlanders who would come running at the first sign of trouble. It was not a decision they had decided on easily, but what else were they to do? Castus and Raya didn't know how to handle any of this. Castus in particular was suddenly forced to confront how young, how inexperienced he really was. How could he possibly have thought that an occasion like this would be exciting? He didn't feel heroic or ambitious. He just felt like the scared youngster he was. He curled his tail over his head and groaned loudly into it, feeling shame and humiliation smother him, teasing him with words like "coward" and "useless." And that only kept him from acting all the more. He despised himself thoroughly at the moment.

As to why Castus didn't simply run about telling everybeast the plans of the vermin, he found himself just downright terrified. Raya didn't trust anybeast in the town except Castus, and Castus wasn't sure what to make of what he heard. Who would believe them? They'd just pass it off as panicky youngsters, nobeast in Birchtown enjoyed making trouble. And if the vermin were found out, what could the town do? Run them out of town and let them terrorize others? Kill them like common vigilantes, and risk the wrath of some greater power? Castus was in an imposition he just hated. He had already taken one risk, and it had nearly cost him his life, he was sure of it. But now this was something too huge to comprehend. Would it even help if he said something?

If he did go and alert the town guard, it would cause chaos. And he still had not discovered the full extent of the vermin troupe's plans. What if killing or arresting them just made it all worse? Perhaps it really would be better to keep quiet until he had found out more; after all, if the mayor was in on it, who knew who else could be safely alerted? Halen, certainly, Halen was known as a wise and just creature (if a little boring), but that would make three against at least a score of vermin, who'd probably kill or take hostage any innocent they could find to get out safely. Castus didn't want to bring that kind of death and destruction down on his home. But was he really one to make that kind of decision?

He only knew that whatever happened, he wanted his family above everything else to be safe. What would the heroes in his stories have done in a position like this? He had no idea, and no answers were forthcoming. It always seemed like the old stories had characters who had to simply sit and suffer before they could actually do anything about it. But he didn't want to suffer, didn't want to fight, didn't want any of this to happen.

Castus didn't want to be a hero.

But did he really have a choice? He really could run right down to the town guard headquarters and blurt out everything he had heard. But had he really discovered anything? All he knew was that what was said had been chilling and ominous, but not necessarily criminal. Maybe... maybe it really wasn't going to be that bad.

He chided himself for thinking that way. Of course it was going to be that bad, that was why he had to tell somebeast! But who? And what if the mayor didn't cooperate? What if he hid the vermin or let them go? And then the bad things would happen anyway. Castus had no idea what he was supposed to do. He wished somebeast else had tried to be brave. He wished that he had never come across this. More than anything else, he wished his father was home, and that he was back in his drey, comfortable and safe, instead of spending a sleepless night on this scratchy bed. Perhaps it _would_ be best to just go home and get some advice from his mother. He rolled over and faced the opposite side of the room, where Raya's bed was.

"Raya..." he whispered. No answer.

"Raya," Castus said again, to no effect.

"Raya!" Castus snapped.

At long last, the mouse rolled over in his sleep and smacked his lips. It was quite obvious to Castus that he was still asleep. The squirrel sighed and hopped off his bed, and marched over to his friend, grabbing him by the shoulder and shaking vigorously.

"Raya, wake up! Wake up! Will you just open your eyes, you layabout?" Still the mouse would not obey. Castus finally got impatient enough to take drastic measures. He threw the covers off, grabbed the mouse's tail, and yanked hard upon it.

Raya sprang up with a pitiful yelp, snatching his tail away.

"Castus, that _hurt!" _he complained, visibly offended.

"How did you sleep through all that?!" Castus blurted out, incredulous at how deeply his friend could slumber. Raya, rubbing his tail, scowled at the squirrel.

"I wasn't asleep!" he snapped. "I was _pretending _to be so you would leave me alone. Now what is it?"

"We need to get out of here," Castus said without hesitation. Raya blinked dumbly.

"What, right now?"

"Yes!"

"Well, why?"

"We're in _danger, _Raya, or did you forget?"

"Castus..." Raya stood up and looked out the window. "It's barely even dawn yet. The mist is heavy and we'll be vulnerable out there. One of those vermin could just be waiting for us to leave!"

"Well if that's the case, we need to leave sooner or later anyway, and I'd rather it be sooner!"

Castus turned to the door, wringing his tail. He looked embarrassed when he spoke again.

"I want... I just want to go home, Raya."

Raya turned back to his friend and stared in silence. He had always thought Castus would have been made of sterner stuff in a situation like this. But truth be told, he was feeling far from calm himself. He knew real trouble, and they were in it! Maybe even their lives were in danger. He wanted home and he wanted to know his mother and brother and sisters were safe. What if those vermin did try to hunt their families down? Oh, he'd never forgive them for that! His paws balled into fists, and he went to stand next to Castus.

"Let's go," he said without hesitation.

Castus nodded and grabbed up his other bag. "We've got to hurry. I won't rest easy until I know mum is safe."

"Same with me," Raya said, pushing open the door. They hurried downstairs and gave their thanks to the innkeep (he was friendly to them and often let them stay for free). In moments, they were out the door and onto the road, making a beeline for the gate. It was a trying time indeed; Castus was under the impression that almost anybeast they ran across could be in on the conspiracy. Especially the guards. Halen was nowhere in sight, which made it a little worse... the vole, while not physically imposing, was always a calming presence, and his absence was keenly felt by the two friends as they slunk out of town. But they had nobeast to help them here, and the two youngsters' emotions were running too high to think very clearly anyway. The gate was not well guarded even on good days because of the relative peace around Birchshire and the Greymarch, and many of the militia probably figured that they could sleep in. Very little of note happened in Birchtown, or at least hadn't in some time. They made their "escape" quickly enough.

Once onto the road, Castus and Raya walked side by side, silent and apprehensive, not daring to look back as the gates faded away behind them, swallowed by the fog, leaving only the road ahead. What would they find at home? Their families safe and secure? Or their homes burnt out and wrecked by angry vermin? Perhaps that was an exaggeration, but they were young and inexperienced, and had no idea what to expect from an event like this.

The early morning mist clung tightly to the ground as they walked. It shrouded the woods as it did most mornings, and usually the two youngsters found it to be a comfortable blanket, blocking undue noise and brightness from the sun, letting them wake up as slowly as the mist would melt off the ground. But now, it was a much more threatening thing. They could see shadows and twisting movements that were surely just folds of greenery waving in the breeze. They did not let these fears overtake them, however. Neither of them were about to admit how downright terrified they were of suddenly being jumped by the vermin they had found out, or of finding their way to a destroyed homestead. They stuck next to each other, now hurrying, now slowing down, now glancing back and forth as they heard an imaginary noise or something else. It was frustrating beyond words. They felt like they were constantly in danger, yet nothing could be done about it. Invisible terrors lurked around every corner, snarling vermin prepared to burst out of every bush.

"I hope-" Castus began, but Raya silenced him.

"Don't hope nothing. I don't want to say anything, don't want to do anything. I just want to get home and make sure everybeast is safe."

Castus found he could do naught but agree with that.

The morning continued to drag on, minute by painful minute, which eventually turned into an hour, and Castus could tell that the sun was up above the horizon by now, but the mist was still heavy and cloying. Was it just him, or had the fog actually gotten thicker? Were they actually getting anywhere, or had they somehow gotten turned around, doomed never to get home until it was too late? He couldn't remember it taking this long to get home before. But things seemed to be all right so far. They were walking at a good clip and had not had anything particularly nasty happen to them. Maybe they really were going to be safe, the squirrel imagined. This path had been fairly uneventful. Right up until Castus whipped about in an astonished fright, brandishing his grocery bag like it could actually do some real damage.

Raya turned right along with him, expecting some horrible, lurking monster to be opening his maw to devour them... but there was nothing there.

"What'd you see?" he asked in a panicked whisper.

"Nothing!" Castus replied. "But I... I heard something moving."

The forest was eerily quiet. The mist seemed to swallow everything, devour the world beyond a dozen yards away, leaving only these two in their pretend world of imaginary sounds. Castus felt a creeping sensation grow along his spine. It was an itch just under the skin. The feeling that they were being watched, followed, stalked, hunted.

"Let's keep moving," he said quietly.

They didn't take two more steps until Castus heard something again. It was the rustle of underbrush just off the path. He knew Raya had heard it too; he could feel his friend tense up at his side. Then, suddenly, something exploded from the bushes and hurried towards the two of them, evidenced by the sudden pounding of footpaws on the road. Castus' heart froze, but his body was already in action.

Without hesitation, he whirled around and swung his bag full of groceries at the attacker, shouting as loud as he could to release the sheer terror that threatened to stop his very heart. He clenched his eyes shut, not wanting to know if he did any serious damage, and felt the impact of his bag on something solid with a satisfying thud.

Raya screamed in fright at Castus' shout, and ended up cowering on the road next to his friend, breathing quickly, his paws over his head. His heart hammered in his chest, the only noise in a world of sudden silence after the burst of action. Bit by bit, he uncurled from his protective huddle and glanced over his shoulder, his eyes still clenched painfully shut. Had Castus just killed something? Had something just killed Castus? He could barely believe his eyes when he finally got them to open again.

The red squirrel stood there in the middle of the road, breathing heavily like a warrior just done with a great battle, his grocery bag weapon locked in a ready position over his shoulder as he towered over a limp rabbit, who was lying completely still at Castus' footpaws. Which was odd, as rabbits were hardly ever seen this far north. Then again, vermin were rarely seen around Birchtown as well. Raya stood up slowly, wondering what had just happened. He stepped up next to Castus, peered down at the rabbit, then looked up to the squirrel.

"You killed it," he said bluntly. Castus shook his head.

"No I didn't," he answered. "See, he's still breathing. I didn't kill him. Just hit him."

Indeed, the rabbit was starting to stir, lifting a paw to gingerly dab at the bruise that was quickly forming.

"Ohhh," he lamented, sounding pained and indignant as he regained his bearings. "Ouch... what was... oh... woe is me... that hurt!"

Castus and Raya stood in silent shock, unsure of what to do. The rabbit sat up, cradling his head. They could see now that he was a well-traveled creature, but the days had not been kind in the least. His face was gaunt and his limbs almost emaciated. He made for a pitiful sight as he sat there in rags and patchy, unhealthy fur as his only coverings, starting up a keen sob which left Castus and Raya confounded. They didn't know what to do about this. Castus, being the one who struck the rabbit, began to feel guilty and edged forward, most cautious in case the rabbit lashed out in revenge.

"Umm... sir?" he began meekly. "Sir... sorry to have hit you like that... but you kind of startled us. Who... what are you doing here?"

The rabbit continued to sniffle and mumble on the ground, only gesturing vaguely at the woods. Raya rolled his eyes and decided to stick his snout into the rabbit's sniveling face.

"Hey, hey! You're alive, right? What's the matter, are you hurt? We don't really have time to talk, we're kind of running... well, walking... for our lives here."

The rabbit looked up suddenly, sniffing back and forth, as though trying to hunt something.

"I smell food," he said eagerly, his skinny limbs grasping out towards the two friends, who jumped back in fright, aware of the grasping, needy claws.

"Give me some! Hurry! It's been so long!" he whimpered, looking between the two of them. When they hesitated, he suddenly grew somewhat hysterical, leaping out at them with an angry cry. His weak legs crumpled underneath him and he collapsed onto the road, barking angrily at them.

"You don't know what it's been like!" he shouted, his voice hoarse. "Beaten... starved! You don't know. Don't withhold food from a hungry mouth! Give it to me... I'll tell you everything!"

Raya, eager to please the crazed rabbit, tossed out a radish. It disappeared in a few short bites. Raya wasn't a fan of them, but the rabbit scarfed it down like he had just been through a seven season famine. And, indeed, by the looks of him, he had suffered exactly like that.

"Oh... oh, that was good," the rabbit said, mesmerized with the feel of fresh food on his tongue again. "More! Please!" Raya sighed and tossed him another radish, which the rabbit began engulfing.

"What do you have to tell us?" Castus demanded quickly. He was not in the mood to dance around the issue... and this rabbit's appearance had made his hackles stand on end. What if... what if he was connected to some vermin slaver group? Worse, the one in town? If he was a recent escapee, they were in worse danger than he thought! Little was Castus aware, his worst fear was about to be realized. The rabbit coughed as he tried to swallow a too large bite, shaking his head miserably as he tried to stand again. His legs were wobbly and weak. Castus had never before seen such malformed limbs. It disgusted him, but he couldn't help but feel a gush of pity for the sorry, lonesome, wretched being before him. Whoever had done this clearly had no concept of mercy, and he loathed them for it. Raya was feeling somewhat less charitable and crossed his arms impatiently as the stranger put his head in his paws and gasped out his story.

"Those... those monsters. Vermin, all of them! The deals they made... sold their very souls they did... and now we're all going to pay for it!"

Castus' tail flared. More talk of shady deals set him on edge, and he was not in the mood to hear of more dangers he was either unable to do anything about.

"What do you mean?" he snapped, taking a few threatening steps forward. The rabbit recoiled and groveled piteously.

"Please! The vermin... slavers, they are! All of them, all around us! Spies, everywhere! But that's just the start, don't you see?" The rabbit's eyes darted back and forth, filled with paranoia. Castus and Raya's feelings of danger and anxiety were not helped in the least.

"Something else is coming behind them, something worse, much, much worse! I overheard the guards, before I escaped!"

"Wait!" Raya said, holding up a paw to stop the outflow of words. "You were a slave? A real slave?" The mere thought was inconceivable to the two of them. Everybeast knew that slavery in the Greymarch was outlawed. Nobeast had spoken of it in tens of seasons because it had ended when the last of the warlords had been driven out of the region. But now, to see a clear example of it right in front of them, to know the horrors inflicted on a living body by the ravages of starvation and beatings, was a little unsettling to say the least. Their ignorance left them frozen, and the rabbit took it as an insult.

"Of course I was!" the rabbit almost shrieked, sounding supremely indignant. "How do you think I got like _this?_ But that's what they want for all of you... all of you! Slavery, or death, those are the only choices left!"

"Stop, stop!" Castus interrupted, waving his arms around. Slave or not, they were wasting valuable time. "Stop rambling, you hear me? Now talk straight! Who or what is coming? Why are slavers here? Are there really that many of them?"

"There won't need to be, once the war is over! It's all part of the plan... part of the deal. Pepin the Younger's the one responsible. He's going to sweep in here ahead of the others and take what he can, scavenge on the rest when it's all over! Stupid, smelly, fat rich snob! Vultures! That's all they are!"

Castus and Raya couldn't quite comprehend what the rabbit was babbling about. They had no idea who Pepin the Younger was or what he did. All they knew was that there were vermin coming, or already here, many of them, and they were going to bring chaos and destruction to their home. That could absolutely not be allowed. Even as a chill froze their hearts, Raya turned resolutely to Castus and grabbed his arm with a grip that spoke of hard weeks in the forge with his father. It was a good thing he had not struck the rabbit. And his father, he would be coming home in a couple of days. He'd be walking right into a would be disaster area. Raya could not let this come to pass.

"Home. Now," he said implacably. Castus didn't argue, and allowed Raya to start dragging him along. But then he felt something snag his tunic mid-step, and he stumbled forward, snatching at thin air and latching onto the back of Raya's own garment. They both collapsed to the ground in a heap, struggling and shouting and kicking as the rabbit grabbed at the two of them, shaking his head violently.

"Wait! Wait!" he said, almost on the verge of crying. "You don't know how far Pepin's got!" Raya twisted around and, without mercy, kicked the poor creature in the side of the head, sending him sprawling, but he was back up on his footpaws with surprising agility for somebeast in his condition.

"You don't know! He's got spies everywhere... even in the town!"

Castus and Raya froze immediately.

"What do you mean?" Castus asked slowly, fear crawling up into his chest like a centipede.

"They disguised themselves. They got in and they're surveying, don't you see? Picking and choosing who to take, where all the safe routes are so they can get out with their loads! They're here, now, in this forest!"

Castus looked to Raya with wide, fear filled eyes.

"You don't think-"

"I know," the mouse replied in a hushed voice. The rabbit cleared his throat and stood up.

"You want to get away, I can see that now. You probably have homes down this road," he said, and put his paws up.

"You'll never get there on the main path. It's all going to start soon. But I know my way around the woods, how to stay hidden. I can keep you safe until we get past them!"

"Wait a minute," Raya said, standing up and dusting himself off. "Even if what you say is true, why should we trust you? How would you know how to avoid them?"

"Good sir," the rabbit replied with sudden dignity, drawing himself up a little taller (which wasn't all that tall; he only topped Castus in height, not including the ears), "I am a scout. Or was, before I was caught. It's how I got away. I just happen to be one of the far ranging scouts for the Goldenvale Militia."

Castus' jaw dropped in shock. A creature from the Vale? Here? Now? It was impossible! All the stories came flooding back. The place of peace established by the Three. Where the strong ruled with a just paw and the rivers flowed quick and clean. Nobeast from that far south ever came up to the Northlands! Did they? Could it really be possible? And if it was, they were in good paws indeed!

"You are from the Vale?" he repeated in shock. The rabbit shrugged demurely.

"Oh, well, I wasn't _born _there," he said, rubbing his nose. It had started to bleed from where Raya had socked him. "But I am a warrior for it, yes. And I came up here to investigate all the vermin movements that we've been watching from afar... and it's far worse than I thought. But if you two need to get home and warn your families, just follow me, eh? I can get you back safe and sound."

Raya wrinkled his nose at the rabbit's suggestion. But if he _was _right, then they'd need all the help they could get, even if it was from an emotionally confused rabbit who claimed to be a soldier. Castus was sold the moment the word "vale" had left the creature's mouth, and usually he was a good judge of character, if he wasn't busy being enamored by stories of heroism.

"He's a soldier, Raya," Castus insisted on top of all that. "Once we get to our families we can worry about everything else."

"Lead on then," he said snappishly, and the rabbit nodded fretfully, wringing his paws. He may have been a soldier, but he was still afflicted by the nervous nature of his kind.

"Right. Follow me, into the brush. Keep low and do exactly as I do. If we're lucky the fog has hidden our presence so far... but it's starting to lift, so we need to move fast."

And into the woods they went, off the side paths. Castus and Raya had no real idea how to keep their tracks hidden, but they were moving too fast to worry about that, and the rabbit seemed to know what he was doing, dodging and weaving and making a very small impression on the ground as he went. Their twisting, turning, silent trail wound around, away from the path, now doubling back, suddenly jiving to the right, until Castus and Raya were thoroughly confused as to where they were. After a few head-spinning minutes, the fog had begun to clear that the forest was quite visible around them. Castus couldn't see the path anymore.

"Stay quiet now," the rabbit whispered harshly, though he was breathing hard. Lack of proper nutrition had sapped his former stamina.

"The fog is cleared. So we're in greater danger now than ever before. Do you know this part of the woods?"

Castus and Raya looked to each other, then back at the rabbit. They shook their heads.

"That grove of pines," Castus suddenly said, looking ahead. "I remember that grove. We used to play near it, used it as a landmark."

"Good, good," the rabbit said with a confident nod, and Castus beamed, impressed at himself and his ability to get praise from an actual soldier.

"Well, let's keep moving," the rabbit muttered, and took off at a quick clip towards that very same clearing. Castus and Raya followed without hesitation.

But then the rabbit scout did something very unexpected. He stood up and walked right into the clearing without any care to keep himself hidden. Castus gaped at him and stood up, Raya jumping to his footpaws right alongside him.

"What are you doing?!" the squirrel demanded. "You're supposed to be keeping low! What about the vermin?!"

_THWACK!_

Further talk was cut viciously short as Castus felt something heavy and thick collide with the backs of his legs. He yowled in agony and collapsed like parchment wilting in a fire. Almost immediately after, something slammed into the back of his head, sending him careening forward into the dirt. His vision was suddenly clouded by inky blots of color swimming in front of his eyes. They looked a lot like stars, come to think of it. His head, his whole body suddenly felt as thought it was swimming in some vague, syrupy mess, constricting his movement. He tried to lift his arm and found it exceptionally hard. Turning his head was impossible. Everything just hurt, a stinging, aching, pulsing hurt that pressed down like a lead weight on his head, a vice on his skull that was squeezing, choking, pounding.

He felt something collide with the ground next to him. Probably Raya. Then came voices, far-off and mute. It was like listening through water.

"...well done, bunny... only two... won't be 'appy..."

"... do we do with... tie 'em up?"

"... what else..."

Castus used all of his willpower to pry his eyes open. It was very hard to make anything he was seeing register, but he could see... something horrible.

The rude weasel Gavril from the town hall meeting was standing in the middle of the grove, along with several other vermin. No longer did they look like simple troubadours. They were armed for battle and ready for hard traveling, all with heavy cloaks, spears, and tough garments made for extended trips in the woodlands. The weasel in particular, all the former charm gone from his face (was it just Castus' state of mind, or did he somehow look larger and uglier than before?) was armed with an axe and a wooden cudgel. He was talking to the rabbit. Now why would they be talking? And then it all came rushing back. Deals in the dark, vermin invading... and this rabbit was all a part of it.

Anger suddenly flowed through him, anger at the rabbit, at his own fear, his own stupidity. What a fool he had been to trust that conniving thief. Betrayed! And for what? Some food, shelter, safety, at the cost of his own town? The temerity of such a thing was infuriating. He couldn't allow this! His family was in danger. This wasn't over. He could still act; he _had _to act now. He had to warn them! He had to get up! He pushed his paws under his chest, willing them to work, using the anger as a focus, the adrenaline as energy. He had to get up, had to shout, to run, to get home...

_Home... home is in danger... get up! Get UP!_

"You..." he gasped out, his voice a slurred jumble. The vermin and the supposed rabbit scout turned to stare in shock. They apparently had not seen such fight before. Normally it only took one blow and they were down and out, at the very least lying in pain on the ground. But seeing one return to the fight... that was a first.

Castus' eyes locked on the rabbit with a baleful stare. He stumbled forward on his paws and knees, inching closer. The rabbit stepped back fretfully, clearly terrified by what he saw in the glaring green gaze of the young squirrel.

"You... you _lied!"_ he screamed, sounding very fierce in his own mind, but only managing a choked, gasping, animalistic shout. Gavril seemed to regain his composure and smirked.

"Well! Of course he lied, lad. Push a beast hard enough and they'll lie about anything! But I think you've seen enough. Go back to sleep."

He stepped forward with purpose, handling the cudgel ominously. Castus reached up and grabbed the front of his tunic.

"No... won't... let you..."

"Shut it, tree rat," Gavril snarled, and shoved Castus away. He slammed his cudgel without mercy into the side of Castus' face. Stars exploded in his vision again. It was over now. He couldn't go on. He had failed. His spirit fell along with him as he hit the ground again, barely feeling the impact compared to the crushing pain that had swallowed most of his head.

The last thing Castus saw before he blacked out was Raya, lying prone on the ground, fully aware of what was happening to them. There were tears in his eyes.

Somehow, that hurt more than anything else.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: We've got a new Redwall book out and I've only read twenty pages of it! I wrote this during my study time for a test (but don't worry, I still studied (and did well!))! Will I follow my own rules and mention Redwall at least once in this story? And seriously, what is up with all the Sue parodies?!

These and more stories tonight at eleven!

Oh, and I'd like to thank evveryone who reviewed the last chapter. Scyphi, JadeTeaLeaf, Maran Zelde, and Foeseeker, and of course Much Ado About Nonny. Your kind words and appraisals keep me going. My apologies for making my readers wait so long! But you know. School. I do hope you all enjoy this chapter, I've been working hard and long on it!

--

The moment Castus woke up, he could tell he was in trouble.

The floor was hard and rough, scraping his cheek as he tried to move his head, which ached terribly and would not let him go back to sleep, no matter how much he wanted to. It was dark, until he realized his eyes were closed. He forced his eyelids open, and light suddenly burned at his eyes. Everything was blurry, and he couldn't hear a thing, except for a ringing in his ears. The pulsing agony that wracked most of his head would not abate, and moving around only made it worse. But he could see green and lines of brown in the blurry mess of sky above. They were still in the forest, and he thought he could vaguely discern that the green blurs were passing by. They were on the move, going somewhere that he didn't know. He couldn't remember for a moment why he was here. All he cared about was trying to get up and figure out what was happening. But the pain was so terrible he wasn't able to even twist his neck.

He closed his eyes again and tried to take refuge in the dark of his mind that wasn't in suffering. It was hard to find that place, and when he did, he curled up inside of it as tightly as he could. He could vaguely discern what was going on, but he didn't like it, and didn't want to remember why he was here. He was in enough pain as it was. And yet, he knew it was unavoidable, a tail tugging feeling that wouldn't let him rest easy. This was his fault, and he knew it. He responded to that by simply closing his eyes tighter and running away from the horror of his reality. He couldn't bear to face it yet.

He didn't know how much time had passed when his eyes opened again, and even then, he didn't remember much as he would fall back into dreamless sleep soon after. It became a cycle of waking into pain and suffering and a rolling, uncomfortable surface under his head, and then fading back into a delirium with nagging pain trying to whisper him back to consciousness. Time was no longer linear. It was a misshapen blob that warped and shifted every time he tried to open his eyes. Sometimes the light outside was grey, sometimes yellow like the sun, and once, it was pitch black. Eventually, he was able to find his way back to consciousness, mostly avoiding the terrible pain he had been experiencing before, winding his way through blackness to the faint light at the edge of his vision.

When he woke again, he found that the sky was not the familiar bright grey that it often was, but a pale blue black. It was night.

_Where are we? _was the first thought to enter his mind.

_Is Raya all right? _was the second.

_Am I going to die? _was the last. It was a chilling line of thought with potentially very bad answers.

The biting cold of a Northland night was beginning to worm its way to the forefront of his consciousness, extending its tendrils through his dawn touched fur. He was beginning to become vaguely aware that the floor had stopped moving, though it was still rough and uncomfortable. The pain in his head had lessened some from the last time he opened his eyes, but the trade-off was that he was much more aware of the aching in his side from laying in the same position for so long. Very slowly, and very painfully, he moved his limbs about and pushed himself up to a kneeling position, kneading his appendages to get the feeling back in them. The pins and needles made him wince. But through it all, he could hear a voice nearby.

"Castus! Castus, are you finally awake? Oh, I was sure you'd have been out for good with that injury."

Raya was at his side in an instant, his paw on his friend's shoulder.

"Don't move too much," he advised. "You're a sight, you are."

"What... what happened?" Castus ventured warily, touching the place where he had been struck. A bruise had formed there, a large and tender one, and he thought he felt the flakes of some dried blood. Raya shook his head and pawed at the wooden floor beneath them.

"We were caught, that's what," he muttered gloomily. Castus looked down at the boards with a paralyzing realization. He followed the beams around until they came to an end, and he saw to his abject horror that his vision was obstructed by long wooden poles. They wrapped all around the duo in a firm, rickety square, tied securely at the ends.

They were in a cage.

"Oh, no..." Castus said, and crawled over to the bars. He touched them as though it would make them end like a bad dream, disbelieving even as his heart plummeted in his chest. They were locked up like petty criminals. No, worse, like _cargo._ Being caged was inconceivable, a night terror used to frighten little children. But here it was, happening to them, too real and too monstrous to be considered. All sorts of terrible thoughts probably should have been entering Castus' mind right now. And yet, all he could think was how much of a bother it would be when his mother found out he wouldn't be home for dinner.

Castus sank back onto his side, staring blankly into space. Raya was forlorn in the corner, unable to think of anything to console his friend because his mind was too blown to be of any use. His eyes were red and puffy, and stung from all the tears he had already shed. The only comfort he could find was that Castus was alive and coherent.

"It's been about two days," he said in a whisper, which Castus did not react to. "I've been awake almost the whole time. We've been traveling southwest, carrying us on a wagon... dunno why." Still no answer from Castus. Raya seemed to be talking to himself.

"That fox, the one we saw at the market... he's behind it... everything. He showed up a little after we got... caught."

"And he's been wanting to give our guests a proper welcome," a silky smooth voice said from outside the cage.

Castus and Raya did not look like surprised. They both looked up with a lackluster expression that could make even the most cheerful of songbirds a melancholy mess.

The fox was not deterred. He leaned on the cage and peered inside, his golden eyes glittering hungrily, like a hungry predator eager to find a way through to his prey.

"You two caused an awful lot of trouble for us," he murmured menacingly, showing his teeth. "Had to scoot our timetable forward to accommodate your nosy ways. But in the end it'll pay off. We needed to leave soon anyway... I expect your village won't be left standing in the next couple of days."

He waited for a reaction, and got none, which displeased him greatly. He rattled on the bars with the back of his paw just to grate on their nerves.

"Two. Just two little brats who couldn't leave well enough alone. Ah, well. There'll be plenty of refugees to pick on once the armies are done moving through."

This seemed to garner some interest. Castus's head lifted just slightly, and his ears twitched. It was enough for the fox, who smiled malevolently, eager to worry his hostages after the fright they had given him and his operation. He had wanted strong beasts to break on the way, not half-starved war-torn weaklings. But he had to take what he could get.

"Oh, yes," he said, drawing out his words in a sibilant whisper. "It's going to be quite terrible. One sad thing about being stuck way out here in the wilderness is that news travels so _slowly. _And you are on the front lines. What a pity. Hopefully, your families will die first. The life of a slave, I hear, is rather demeaning."

Suddenly, from the front of the wagon, a snuffling noise drew the attention of all three. A hulking shadow stirred and shifted in the night. Castus and Raya gaped at the sheer size of the monster as it began to rise. Even laying down, it easily reached Castus in height. A large, boxy head covered in shaggy fur turned to glare at them with beady eyes.

"Calm down, Balor," the fox said soothingly. "Just the master speaking. Go back to sleep."

The beast huffed in annoyance and turned away again.

"You boys ever seen a wolverine before?" the fox asked smugly, watching with satisfaction as the two youngsters cowered and scooted from the front of the cage.

"Usually they wouldn't be stuck pulling slave wagons and following orders from... scrawny foxes like myself. But poor Balor over there... he got hit on the head when he was a wee cub. Messed up his mind. Landed with us... been a loyal servant ever since. But that little bump on the head has given him an awful, awful temper. I suggest you two behave on this trip. Don't want to ruffle his fur."

Finally he seemed to grow bored and backed away.

"Well, we're not stuffing food into your mouths anymore. You're both awake." He raised a paw. A stoat came forward bearing a single bowl of lukewarm porridge. He plopped it in between the bars of the cage.

"Now feed yourselves. Stay in shape and maybe you'll at least fetch a good price at market." The two vermin disappeared into the night, joining their comrades near a couple of small, wary fires. Castus and Raya were alone on the wagon, each lost in their own thoughts. Raya's sadness was gradually being replaced by anger and disgust. His whole body seethed with anguished hatred at their situation, and the monsters who had put them in it. He wanted to blame Castus for all this; his feelings needed some kind of vent. But he was too tired, too pained in the heart, to even try to raise his voice. So he sat there, silent, staring at the porridge (which looked more like gruel) and contemplating whether he should be the one to suggest they eat up. His thoughts gradually returned to the home they had been torn from. It was still so close, it seemed like all he had to do was open the cage door and there he'd be back in his own room. Among his brother and sisters, waiting eagerly for father to return... well, not that eagerly, he'd have had to go back to the forge. The forge was something he wanted desperately. To lose his mind in work and forget this horrible time had happened.

Castus was faring little better. His mind was torn up by a whirl of self-pity and regret, and constant worry over his family. His sisters would be worried sick by now, perhaps Edwina would have gone into town to look for him (being the responsible one when father was away) and mother would be tearing the fur from her tail. When Father got back, he'd stroke her ears and tell her not to worry, and go to town himself to find his wayward son. And not finding him, what would he do? Would they even suspect that the disappearance of Castus and Raya had something to do with the equally timed departure of the traveling vermin? Carus was a sharp beast, he'd find the connection soon enough. And so he'd gather the militia and he and Raya's father would hurry through the woods to rescue their children. And after a bloody skirmish they'd be reunited, ready to face whatever storm the fox had mentioned.

But suppose they were delayed? What was this talk about armies and destruction? Castus had heard nothing of war, nothing in the least. Had some magnificent plan been concocted and the mobilizations kept secret? It seemed impossible, but the Northlands were a vast and isolated place. It could be that some clever warlord had somehow hidden his army until the right moment to strike. But how? And why? Greymarch was nothing important, was it?

Castus wracked his brain for answers. He could remember the history of the region from the elders and their stories. Many seasons ago, Greymarch had been home to wolves. Fearsome, bloodthirsty, and terrible monsters they had been, terrorizing and murdering any creatures foolish enough to live nearby. Not even the barbarous vermin warlords who had been so plentiful back then had dared to try and claim the brooding forests for themselves, knowing it was a fool's errand. Greymarch had been known as the Howling Woods back then, in seasons far gone. But then had come Pawndry the Bold, a perilous mountain hare king. The wolves had killed his only son, and he had come to claim the body and salvage the hares' honor at any cost. Pawndry came at the head of an army which had driven back the wolf menace, scattering their tribes and supposedly driving them to extinction. More settled and sane woodlanders and vermin could lay claim to Greymarch when Pawndry left.

In short, Greymarch was an interesting place, but not an important one by any stretch of the imagination. So why attack it?

And if it was under attack, and Birchtown was targeted, Castus knew in his heart that the pitifully small militia, brave as it was, would never stand against an entire army. His home had no hope of survival.

Realizing that made his heart clench in his chest, making him double over severely. It was as though his young and idealistic body could not stand the taint of hopelessness. He had to hold on to something good. The hope that his family made it out safe was all he had for now.

He turned to meet Raya's gaze, which he couldn't find. Raya was still staring down at the porridge.

"I guess we should try to eat," the mouse said quietly. Castus sighed and reached a paw towards the watery stuff. He scooped some up onto his paw and sipped it. It was almost disgustingly bland, but it had substance, with clumps of oats and barley in the mixture. Castus usually preferred to eat this sort of thing with greensap milk, but that was wishful thinking. This tasted like somebeast had just boiled some water and tossed in half cooked grains. It must have come from the bottom of whatever bag they had carted it out of; Castus and Raya both picked out pawfuls of chaff before they were done. They ate in silence, and barely ten minutes had gone by before they were done.

They stared at the empty bowl with miserable blankness, listening to the coarse joking and hard drinking of the slavers behind them. The bowl looked as empty as their hearts felt.

-----------------

Five days passed as the small caravan made its way west, winding through the forests and over hills. It was torturous for Castus and Raya, who were forced to remain cramped and miserable in their cage, which shuddered and rocked at the slightest provocation. They were in constant terror of Balor and his supposedly unpredictable temper, but like a rolling boulder, the dull wolverine just plodded along in silence, doing as he was bidden and not making trouble. Thankful as they were for that, they could not bear their other troubles. Their muscles ached for release, and they couldn't even lie down without bumping their limbs or paws on each other or the poles of the cage. Upon that, they were completely undefended from the elements. A light drizzle on the third day was no longer a simple distraction from a busy work day. It became a miserable exercise in frustration with each droplet a freezing dagger against their skin. The two youngsters had huddled together to pool their warmth, as they were shown no mercy from their captors, who were doing their utmost to simply ignore them except to throw the watery porridge at them every evening. Castus would have preferred some vegetables or spices to at least give it some flavor.

Then he remembered they were slaves. Slaves didn't get anything. It was a wonder they weren't being beaten... they probably wanted their market value to keep up. Castus still could not believe the situation they were in, though his numbed and terrorized mind was beginning to accept it.

Slave was a word that was beneath him and Raya. Slavery was a far off and imaginary crime, only comitted in old stories and against faraway beasts with no connection to Greymarch. It didn't happen here. Too many woodlanders and too few vermin. It simply didn't happen. Only across the mountains, or to the very far south. Not here. Never here. But here they were, caged and doomed to be dragged to some distant land, sold off to a terrible taskmaster, never to see home or the comfort of a family again. Just endless toil and labor. Raya seemed to be taking it surprisingly well. He didn't seem scared or traumatized anymore... just _bored._ He'd sit on the floor of the wagon, staring at the forests and wishing he could go back home. He regarded his captors with a sneering, obnoxious air. Once, he had even shown some lip to one of the vermin, demanding that he be let out to stretch his legs. The rat had sneered at him and threatened him with lopping off his legs so he wouldn't need to worry about stretching them. Raya had quieted down after that, but he kept glaring at everybeast afterwards. He seemed certain that they'd get their come-uppance. He just had to wait for it to get here.

Castus felt angry. His spirit was that of a freebeast. He remembered what his father and the elders had told him about the woodlanders of the North, how their spirits were as unbreakble as the winter ice over a lake. When they shared stories of Icemoat Keep and how it had weathered countless blizzards and enemy attacks during the early days. Those stories were the only thing that kept him going now, but he doubted they were actually any good. His own story had turned out rather miserably so far, and Raya hadn't forgiven him for all he knew.

He had been stupid to drag Raya into this, to even believe that he could make a difference. He had wanted to write his own little story and at least try to emulate the heroes he had heard of. Instead he had led his best and only friend into a deathtrap, when they should have been back home, listening to the stew boiling or dashing through the woods like the playful youngsters they were. Raya should have been practicing his flute in the back corner of town hall like he did before all this had happened. Oh, the times they shared, just sitting in the warmth of the hall, knowing that the world was orderly and proper and nothing could break it down. It was an astonishing thing, how far removed those feelings were now. How incredibly fragile they all seemed, how broken and impersonal, like shattered glass that kept breaking the more he tried to pick it up.

Yet they remained, and gave some measure of warmth to his heart. He remembered just a few weeks ago when everything was all right and safe, the winter more an annoying antagonist than a terrifying menace. He'd gone to town with his father to listen in on the town meetings, though he almost always slept through those. It was afterwards that the elders would gather and pass on stories to the next generation, and those times Castus would listen with pride in his heart and a smile on his face. up in the front row on one of the easy chairs. Raya would sit in a corner and practice playing the reed flute as always, but it was never a distraction. Just part of the overall ambience. Castus wished he could hear his friend's flute again. Raya had always said his playing was like the warbling of a deaf toad trying to sing, but Castus knew better, even if he didn't appreciate music like his friend did. He'd give anything just to hear the tweeting of that flute.

The memories made his heart soar compared to the grueling existence he now had stretched out before him. He closed his eyes and tried to remember. A dream of more innocent times came to him, and he watched as his younger self plopped down next to Carus, eyes wide. Was it really only the beginning of last winter this happened? Oh, how much younger he already seemed, hypnotized by the feel of that big hall lit only by the large fire, listening as the snow flurried outside, and drinking in tales of far off golden times...

--

"_The spirit of the North is alive in us all," croaked elder Fartham, his bushy whiskers drooping from his brow. He shook his old spines and wiggled his pointed hedgehog nose as he prepared himself for another tale. He emphasized his words with wild gesticulations._

"_Always remember that, beasts of Birchtown. Oh, I know that this is but a small town. I know some of the youngsters say nothing ever happens here. That war and adventure wait to the south, or across the mountains. But never forget that we are a hardy folk. We took this land from the savage wolves before us at the behest of old Pawndry. We settled, we lived, we flourished. Braved the winters! Pacified the vermin that sought to push us out! Carved a living out of the ice and snow with our bare paws. Our ancestors were bold and grim, dour faced and dirty! One of the Three even came to us and founded the greatest of our strongholds, Icemoat Keep. Good Serno was always a Northerner at heart. And so are we. Do you see the axes and spears lined on the walls? Over the shields we keep polished? The wolves were not the only things we faced, though blessed we are to not have them anymore! Weasels, ferrets, foxes, mountain rat raiders by the legion! Some of these weapons were used even then, and wait until such a time as they are needed again."_

_The old hedgehog took a whiff of his pipe weed, and stood up to take hold of one of these weapons. Castus took the opportunity to turn to his father. _

"_You use a spear. Don't you father?"_

_Carus turned to his son with a simple nod and a smile._

"_Aye, Castus. A spear is a good weapon for squirrels. It is sleek, sharp, and fast, just like us. And it abounds in great numbers like us, too."_

"_Will you teach me to use one?"_

_His father paused at that, hesitating before he answered._

"_One day, Castus. The time is not now. We are at peace, and we have much work to do before the winter's done. Come this spring. I promise."_

_But it was an axe that Fartham pulled from the wall, along with a big iron tower shield. His old muscles strained with the weight, but he managed to plop both artifacts on the floor with a loud clang that upset one of the babes in attendance. Its mother quickly shushed it, and Fartham went on._

"_These are where our spirit truly lies," he said with a smile. "The axe is our perseverance and determination, and the shield is our steadfast nature. An axe is always ready for peace or war. It chops trees and fashions buildings as easily as it cleaves skulls. So too are we ready for any struggle that may arise, building a house and family, or defending ourselves from outside threats. The shield is something we never put down. It is our determination to stand firm whatever the cost, to ensure the safety of our freedom and future."_

_Of course, everybeast knew that it had been seasons since Birchtown had seen anything bigger than a few half-witted vermin gangs. They counted these times as ones of peace and quiet. Fartham was always nostalgic for the glory days. Hardly anybeast even remembered how old he was._

"_Bless these days, my kin! Be glad you have never had to see blood stain this axe, or the scars of weapons cleave this shield. I myself gave up such things long, long ago, and built my own house just up the road, yes. Don't chase after dandelions. The days of armies and warriors is done. It is hardy work and a strong arm that gets us what we need today."_

_Carus nodded with approval. The last thing he wanted was for his son and precious daughters to grow up in anything except peace and quiet._ _His own grandfather had had stories of the days when vermin were plentiful, when the forests rains were freezing, and the shelter was minimal. His children would never be subject to that. He would make sure of it._

_Fartham finished it up with a tale of the exploits of Greystripe, a badger lord in his own right during the times of Martin the Warrior. Oh, yes, tales of Redwall reached even the cold, frigid lands of he North. Martin was beyond mythic proportions, so long ago did he live and so embellished the tales had become as they traveled across the mountains. But just like everything else, Martin was not here. The greatest warrior who had ever lived was half a world away, so there was no point in thinking about him._

_So Fartham stopped his creaky story telling, and Carus went to speak to one of the farmers whose plot had been hit especially hard, conferring with Raya's own father about business to be done. Raya, seeing the tales were over, started playing his flute at full blast again. Castus went right up to Fartham and asked a straightforward question._

"_Sir," he said with a bow, "if we are in such peaceful times, why keep all these weapons?"_

_The old hedgehog's eyes glinted, and he smiled cryptically._

"_Young Castus. I know you! And I know that you know the answer to that already. It's not a happy answer, no. But we keep these weapons and these stories because we know... we know that one day, it will all be needed again."_

--

"It isn't right," Castus said, startling Raya, who had been waiting for a pine cone to fall into the cage so he could lob it at an especially ugly looking weasel a few yards away.

"Eh?"

"It isn't right," Castus repeated. "This. We're free beasts, Raya. Even if we are in a cage. I'm not going to be a slave. Not for anything."

Raya peered at his friend, considering this newfound resolution. He decided that it was a good one.

"Well me neither. But we can't do anything right now, can we? Look, don't worry. That fox was just bluffing, see? Our families are safe. Once we get out of here it'll be fine. My mum will tweak our ears for being gone so long and your sisters will have a good cry."

"Hey! Shut up!" snapped a tired and angry ferret nearby. "Bad enough we have to tramp around on our paws while you brats sit nice n' cozy in that wagon! I'm not gonna handle listenin' to you natter on like old wives!"

"Now now," said the by now frighteningly calm voice of the fox, "don't be too hard on our guests. They're just a little under stress, after all."

The ferret snorted and moved off as the fox jumped up onto the back of moving wagon. Raya had a sincere urge to leap forward and strangle him against the bars, but Castus settled for just glaring at him from the far side of the cage.

"Maybe we got off on the wrong footpaw," the fox murmured with a small, needle thin smile. "My name is Kaltag."

No response from the captives. Kaltag stood up and shrugged.

"You know, you two should really be happy! You will survive the conflagration that is about to descend on your home with the fury of Hellgates. You'll see the world! Travel, meet all new masters and be beaten by them. The mountain passes lie open to us, and slave prices in the west are through the roof! It's really going to be quite a trip."

Castus closed his eyes and put his head against his knees. Kaltag, however, was relentless.

"The rest of your families are probably dead by now. Your village, burned to the ground like it should have been ages ago."

"What do you keep going on about?" Raya suddenly snapped, leaning forward. "You got us, all right? Your little plan worked! You got your slaves and you got to see an innocent village get duped!"

"Not just deceived, little one," Kaltag said with a sneer, unimpressed by Raya's outburst, "but destroyed. Dead. Gone."

"You _liar!"_ Raya shouted.

"_Wrong!" _Kaltag snapped right back, slapping his paw against the cage. "I may be a cold-blooded son of a tavern wench, boy, but I am no liar. Your village has been destroyed."

"By who?" sneered the mouse. Kaltag grinned. His teeth were almost disturbingly healthy and sharp.

"That would be telling. But rest assured, children. You have nothing to go back to."

"Why do you keep taunting us?" Castus blurted out. Kaltag gripped the bars of the cage and slid along to get closer to the squirrel.

"Because, you stinking tree rat, you're the reason I'm looking over my shoulder at night now. I have a _reputation_ to uphold, and this was supposed to be one of my greatest successes. Half a village of blundering woodlanders all in my net. Traitors, spies, set up to bring them all in! I'd have made enough to make my name infamous. Maybe even retire with my own little manor! And you... you ruined it. You forced me to move my timetable up with your snooping! Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to be a slaver coming back without slaves? To look your followers in the face and know they could stab you in the back just because they won't get paid?"

"No," Castus said flatly. "I hope it burns."

"Ooo," Kaltag said, his expression crass and scandalous. "I never thought a woodlander was capable of such spite." He stood up and rattled the cage. "Come on, boys. Get angry. Get greedy. Get _verminous._"

He kicked the cage spitefully.

"It's always the same, isn't it?" he sneered. "Woodlanders and their righteous fury. As long as it's against vermin, something will justify it, won't it? You know something? That rabbit was happy to betray his own kind. All it took was one little slight from long ago, and he was clay in my claws. And Trimble? Ha! Don't even get me started on that one. He was a fearful little mongrel with no belly for stalwart leadership. He never wanted to be mayor. Never wanted to have to stand up for others. A coward, hiding behind his lofty position! Just like all mice do when they're lucky enough to get power." This earned a contemptible snort from Raya. But Kaltag went on.

"Such creatures like him only need to see a drop of blood, or a bit of teeth, and they crumple like parchment. Do you know what such beasts do when confronted with the possibility of death?"

He knelt down next to the cage and leered at Castus.

"They whine and they scream and they _whimper,"_ he whispered malevolently, his lips peeled back to reveal his sharp canines. "Just like you two will. The arrogance all woodlanders are born with just makes it all the more satisfying to watch it get _beaten _out of them. It may surprise you to know that the haughty contempt you are so apt at displaying is now against you and yours. This war... what we're running from... isn't just another struggle for power or land or riches. Didn't they teach you anything in the histories?"

He smiled that thin smile of his again and jumped off the wagon, rattling the bars as he went, leaving Castus and Raya baffled and scared.

"Pawndry didn't get them all."

The squirrel and the mouse turned back towards each other.

"What did he mean by that?" Raya asked, though his voice was hoarse. He knew the answer wasn't going to be anything good. Castus was busy dealing with the chill that had run down his spine as the implications sank in. He scooted up to the bars of the cage and surveyed the surrounding woodland. Even during their days of travel with the slavers, the woods had always seemed the same. Safe and indifferent and unchanging. But now... the shadows hid something monstrous.

"The wolves," Castus said in a raspy whisper. "The wolves are back. He was talking about the wolves."

Raya froze up and swallowed nervously, watching the rear of the caravan. They had all heard stories about wolves. About how their howls were like that of the most ferocious of blizzards, how their hearts were made of winter's ice, and their blades forged in the blood of their own slain. Tales of their prowess and ferocity in war were legend, and it was said that in the lands across the sea, wolves were plentiful and made constant war against each other and the other creatures unfortunate enough to live nearby. It had been told how they ate captives alive and never, ever forgave a wrong done against them. They had been told they should be thankful wolves never bothered to repopulate this area, how they always plagued some other town at the edges of the known world. Castus and Raya could find no words to imagine what kind of terror they had left behind. Suddenly, somehow, the cage seemed more like protection than prison.

The wind started picking up, blowing the stormy clouds above as if to speed the passage of the slaver caravan. In the wind, Castus imagined he could hear the howls.

----

"We have news," the vixen said as Kaltag rejoined her.

"Tell me it's good."

"We have a visitor."

Kaltag stopped dead in his tracks. His jaw tightened as he looked to the front of the group, which had stopped, crowding around an unfamiliar weasel.

"He's from Trosk's group, isn't he?"

"Afraid so."

Kaltag looked up to the sky. It was a brooding grey, as always. Like it could feel the turmoil erupting throughout the land, watching from afar with a stern, unforgiving gaze. He went forward to meet the weasel, who took one look at the extra empty cages and sniffed. Kaltag glared daggers at him. He'd wipe that stupid look off his face. He refused to go home empty-pawed and face the ridicule of his peers.

The one rule that Kaltag had never broke in his life was to always, always have a back-up plan.


	6. Chapter 6

1A/N: Wow! I am so sorry I'm so late with this! But I've been sick and school's been crazy. I hope you all can forgive me! I want to give a shout-out to all my reviewers and readers who have stuck with me. Fear of disappointing you all is part of what keeps me going!

We have a really long chapter today, so I hope you're all ready to read. Let's get this going.

--

Koren dashed breathlessly through the halls of Firedale Keep, his bushy tail flagging behind him as he kept his head low, aiming to get as much speed and distance as he could out of his burning legs. Why oh why couldn't a proper hare runner do this job? He was supposed to read and write the letters, not deliver them! But they had to go somewhere, or else the entire system fell apart. Knowledge, and the transfer of it from paw to paw, was his business, and the lords appreciated him very much for it. He took his job very seriously.

Not two days ago a hare _had _actually arrived at the northern border, the first message besides an exhausted sparrow from Icemoat, but he had been too tuckered out to carry on, and explained that his message was dire. Koren had taken it upon himself to carry it the last leg of the journey, though it was nightfall on the third day by the time he _finally _arrived at the gates of Firedale, seat of power just south of the brooding Greymarch, and the largest castle this side of Icemoat. It was a prime location, seated in the Borderlands as it was. It was here the battle plans were going to be drawn up. Likely, a meeting was already in progress, as he had seen messenger sparrows flitting back and forth overhead in his mad dash back to the keep. If only the lords had seen fit to plant some kind of relay system instead of relying on creatures running back and forth like rats with their tails chopped off. He was a squirrel, and made for hopping through trees, not for leaping over creeks and bushes of the dale! He hadn't even had time to stop and see the sights. But this message was dire indeed. He had read it himself, had it re-sealed with the sigil of Lord Hathig, and taken off like a shot.

The guards hadn't given him any trouble, seeing as he wore the bright yellow scarf of the runners. Still, even as he passed through the great wooden barriers, he did not slow. Even as he pounded up the stone steps of the inner keep, he did not break pace. He could barely stop himself by the time he bashed into the meeting hall, skidding to a stop on his knees and gasping for breath. He held out both paws in a submissive gesture, the all-important scroll stretched out towards the gathered captains and tribal leaders who were huddled over the long table in the center of the room.

"My lords, assembled heads of- whoo! Of house… I, I bring, huff, a me- a me-!"

The scroll was snatched from his paws before he could finish. A beady-eyed shrew stood before him, unfurling the precious parchment. His already small eyes narrowed into barely visible slits as he approached the table again, leaving Koren to catch his breath in the doorway.

The shrew slapped the parchment down on the table.

"It's started," he growled. "The rumors are true, all of them! Says here they've already scoured Birchshire and are movin' on to the other regions of Greymarch. War's at our doorstep, an' Greymarch is powerless to stop it. They haven't even sent envoys yet."

The others were small in number, being only a gathering of four shrews, an otter, two moles, an elderly hedgehog at the head of the table, and two squirrels.

"I never thought it possible," spoke one of the squirrels, his tail adorned with wood carved rings, and wearing a red sash around his waist. "How could such an attack come so swiftly? And from… from such barbarians as wolves! Oh, to think I used to tell tales of such monsters to my children to scare them to sleep!"

He rustled his tail as a sign of agitation.

"A mistake we'd best not make again, Rakis, Master of the Rivers," a tall, slim otter spoke up near the end of the table. "Good Rakis calls 'em barbarians. We best remember our 'istories, mates! Took a whole army o' mountain hares ta' bring 'em into submission! Since we've already got news that they're back, well I say now's the time ta' hit 'em! While they're still scattered."

"Khunig Swiftwake brings up a good point, yet forgets many more," spoke an elderly hedgehog at the head of the table. He wore on his head a gold circlet, and wore a bright purple cape to denote his high position. Koren tried to quiet down his heavy breathing when he spoke. This was the one and only Lord Hathig, master of Firedale and protector of the land immediately south of Greymarch.

"There is no reason to rush headlong into danger," the venerable lord continued in a husky, age-cracked voice. "We do not even know the full strength of the enemy's numbers. To send any appreciable force blindly into Greymarch would spell disaster. You'd be more hampered and harried by vermin tribes than any sizeable wolf warband! We do not even know what their goal is." All through his speech, poor Koren, who had not been dismissed, huffed and puffed in a corner as he caught up to two days of lost breath.

"They would not be blind!" announced another, fiery voiced squirrel near the hedgehog, slapping a paw to the table to emphasize his point. The signet ring on his paw helped add volume to his table banging. Koren instantly recognized the infamously bright and bushy tail of Lord Hoster, squirrel-king of almost every squirrel tribe around Firedale. "Lord Hathig, I speak as the voice of the northern squirrel tribes. Our skill lies in trees, the lay of the land, and ambush. No wolf, legendary beast or not, can match us in that. Merely give leave for us to unite and we will smash these creatures back into the myths they crawled from."

"You seem all too willing to cross swords with myths and fairy tales, Hoster," Hathig said, squinting his weak eyes. "I for one would like to know why, where, and how wolves could appear suddenly on our northern border in numbers large enough to form an army! Yet you rippers would tear off and see the countryside laid waste before you even knew what you were dealing with."

Though old, the hedgehog still carried great authority with his voice. Hathig had been lord of Firedale for many seasons, and his old body bore many scars. The others in the room hushed to his voice, though Swiftwake and Hoster seemed unimpressed.

"I wielded my battle hammer before many of you were learning letters! Have none of you appreciation for what we're dealing with? This is no mere vermin uprising, and believe me, I've dealt with many. I can feel it in my bones. This is something more, but what, I cannot say. Before any action is to be taken, we must know what is happening! I have not even sent word to Goldenvale-"

"With all due respect, m'lord, we _already _know!" pleaded Khunig Swiftwake, speaking over Koren's gasping, "Goldenvale cannot 'elp us. As spokesbeast fer the otter tribes around Greymarch, I say we need action, afore more lives 'r lost needlessly."

"You are only king of as many tribes swear their loyalty to you, Swiftwake," Hathig reminded the otter harshly. "And Goldenvale is the only province in the North with enough troops armed and ready for battle to match a united army, wolf or otherwise! Koren!" he finally snapped. "Would you kindly take your huffing and puffing elsewhere?!"

The dutiful squirrel snapped to attention and gave a smart salute before retreating. Hathig gave a heaving sigh as the debate continued without pause.

"A united wolf army is exactly what _we _will soon face if we do not stop them in Greymarch," spoke up Hoster. "Lord Hathig, you cannot expect simply your word and your paltry force to hold back the will of the North!"

"Boi okee, Oi thinks 'ee gurt lords 'r speakin' beyond yurr position, burr aye!" a harsh voiced mole barked from his seat. "Iffen 'ee gurt lord Hathig be sayin' we wait, Oi says we wait, burr aye! 'Ardy moles is what duggen up the earth for yon' castle all yon be sittin' in. A sturdier place nobeasty'll find, burr."

"Chieftain Whiteclaw speaks the truth," Hathig hastily agreed, glad for some support at last. "My friends, look around you. We are so few, and the enemy may be so many. We haven't even able to assemble the full number of tribal chiefs and local land lords. You say we know exactly what we must do, exactly how to accomplish a monumental feat of marching an army into Greymarch, when in reality we know _nothing. _Nothing, gentlebeasts, except that a single stretch of land has been attacked by what _may _be a larger than expected force of beasts we have not seen since our grandfathers were born!"

The old hedgehog's voice gave out in a fit of quivering coughs. Koren, who was listening at the door, winced in sympathy to his master's plight. All these new and young masters and lords, ready to do battle with creatures they had never even seen in their lives. Why must they make life so difficult for poor Hathig? He had always been the stalwart defender of Firedale, since Koren was learning how to climb trees. He deserved better than this.

Inside, one of the shrews, the very same who had spoken first of the parchment Koren delivered, cleared his throat.

"Lord Hathig makes sense to me. I, Gawjun Sage, stand with Chieftain Whiteclaw and the lord protector of Firedale. Doesn't make sense not even shrews have traveled the rivers to give us word, no, we have to get it from sparrows! No offense to our feathered friends. But I suspect something dark is apaw. T'ain't just wolves we're dealin' with, mark my saber on that. The shrews of Whitecrest will make no move until we know more of what's going on."

The shrew next to him followed suit, raising a paw in solidarity. Swiftwake and Hoster watched incredulously as all the shrews showed their equal support.

"The Gawjun's word is law! Ivybridge will remain."

"The Gawjun's word is law! Frostmoth will spare no shrew."

"The Gawjun's word is law. Undertow will send nobeast to this cause."

Koren smiled privately behind the door. Without the shrews to help control the rivers, no move could be made that would not be considered folly. What made it even sweeter was that the shrews almost never agreed on anything! Swiftwake and Hoster must have been in a fine temper. Heavy pawsteps made him leap back from the door. Swiftwake and Hoster slammed it open, leaving with dark looks on their faces. Obviously they were not happy about the outcome of the meeting. But there would be others, and there were still three or four more leaders yet to arrive. It had been by chance that they had all been so close for a quick council. But very little had been decided except who was going to antagonize whom. He politely shut the door again, and continued to listen clandestinely.

"Ohh, these days are too short for politics," Hathig lamented, settling back into his chair.

"Swiftwake and Hoster think they own everything just because they have a wee bit of colored tunic and some rings around their claws," Gawjun Sage said with a wave of his paw. "They're young, fresh rulers with the hopes of their clans on their shoulders. Just because they own a few river bends and villages doesn't mean they can push you around, m'lord!"

"Boi okee, we molers doan't respect nuttin' asoide of gurt strong skulls!" Whiteclaw growled, shaking the cane that marked his position as chief of moles. "'Ee young'n lords bain't be tested furr proper war makin', burr aye."

"Add to that a dash of youthful vigor and optimism, and they're like babes in the sweets cupboard when it comes to vain-glorious saber rattlin'!" spoke up one of the shrews.

"If only Swiftwater's daughter were of age to rule," Sage said with a shrug. "I've heard tell she has a good head, and a real head turner she is too! With a lass like that on our side, Hoster would have no reason to do anything except fume like he always does."

"Ah, my friends," Hathig said with a melancholy smile. "Where would I be without your counsel?" He glanced at Rakis, the bejeweled squirrel who was staring sullenly at the table.

"Rakis, my friend, what ails you?"

"Merely a trifling thought, my lord," he answered. "But a pertinent one, I think. As Master of Rivers-"

"In title only, and don't you forget!" piped up Gawjun Sage.

"- as Master of Rivers, I should think I would be first to receive word by our waterways. Yet Sage brought up a valid concern. Why have we not received word except by air, and even then by panicked sparrows and occasional kites? Icemoat Keep itself, guardian of Greymarch, was only able to send but one hastily scrawled letter by sparrow which started this whole mess. They were taken off guard by this. Something deep and foul is at work in the northern woods. The wolves, I fear, are but a symptom. Something powerful has brought them together in an orchestrated attack they have done their best to keep quiet…. Something the legends say wolves never do. Perhaps a legend of their own has roused them to higher strategy, or so my quavering heart says. My sons and fair daughter are far keener warriors and trackers than I. If I have not received news from them by the end of the week, my suspicions will likely have been confirmed."

"By the end of the week, Swiftwake and Hoster will have us at each other's throats. One half will be clamoring to stay out of the wolves' way, the other half climbing over each other to fight 'em," Sage said somberly. "M'lord Hathig, I respect your decisions. But patience will only get us so far. Allow the Log-a-log of Undertow here time to coordinate with the local birds, and get a message to Goldenvale. I'll speak to Swiftwake and Hoster. Hopefully they aren't already causing a riot out there."

Hathig bowed his wide head as Sage departed.

"My thanks, Gawjun Sage. You are not High Chief for nothing. In the meantime, Whiteclaw, go back to your home, spread word to the moles you can reach. I want every ear to the ground to find out what's going on in Greymarch. Every traveler that comes out, I want questioned. That forest won't stay impenetrable forever. Koren, where is he when I need him? Koren! Get back in here! I have another message for you!"

--

"This does not look good."

Castus shivered at his friend's words. Indeed, ever since Kaltag had had that meeting with the unknown weasel two days ago, things seemed to be going downhill. Farther they went from home, and thinner their bodies grew on the meager gruel they were fed. Kaltag pushed his slavers to the limit, acting as though he had a purpose now beyond just tormenting woodlanders. He had a destination in mind, and he was going to reach it. Raya was still sitting in the back of the cage, fiddling with the rope that held the bars together, but Castus had kept his eyes on Kaltag. He noticed the fox flinch every time the weasel came near. He conferred often with Gavril and his vixen companion, in low, hushed tones. He conversed often and loud with the other slavers, as if to reassure them of something they all ought to know.

All in all it was quite queer to behold.

At the moment, it was nightfall, marking their eighth day in captivity. Castus and Raya had finally grown accustomed to the idea of slavery, and were not so prone to hysterics and panic like they might have been. But Kaltag was as energetic as ever. Barely past midnight, he had started rousing his slavers, telling them that time was wasting. He wanted to hurry away from the wolves, but also wanted to hurry towards something else. Balor seemed equally agitated by his master's hopping around, and Castus and Raya did their utmost to not shake the wagon. A tired, angry wolverine was not a creature they wanted to mess with.

"What could possibly be going on?" Castus wondered.

"Not the slightest clue," Raya remarked, "but whatever Kaltag's chewing on, I hope it chokes him." He laid his head down to try and get some sleep, and Castus did the same. Even so, his thoughts were alive. Perhaps they were getting close to an opportunity to escape? Was that just wishful thinking? Perhaps Kaltag would make himself so stressed he may even forget about his captives. That was unlikely though. Slaves were the most important thing a slaver could possess. No, their best chance was still to lie and wait. But he could feel his body begin to grow sluggish and heavy. It would not be long before they could barely lift their own weight.

He had trouble sleeping that night.

Upon waking on the ninth day of travel, Castus' ears were perked. It was late in the morning, and he could hear arguing at the front of the caravan. Wearily, he forced his eyes open and peered through the waking blur to see what was happening. With a start, he realized there was no hulking Balor to block his view. In fact there were no guards at all. The slavers were at the front in a gaggle, arguing with another group of vermin. His limbs were sore from not being stretched properly in so long, but he was roused enough that he reached out to nudge Raya with his footpaw.

"Raya… wake up! Something's going on!"

The mouse mumbled and waved a paw in the air. Castus only poked him all the harder.

"Raya! Wake up! You need to see this!"

Raya finally batted his footpaw away.

"What, what? Can't it wait?"

"I don't think so. Something important is going on, I can tell! Look, at the front of the caravan."

The two friends peered through the bars of the cage and watched. Kaltag was having an animated discussion with a comparatively stoic and still ferret, who stood tall and muscular, resting his paws on a wicked looking battle-axe. Behind him was a gang of vermin, impressively armed with spears and daggers, and a couple of bows. He stared dispassionately as Kaltag paced back and forth in front of him, paws akimbo.

"What's got his tail in a knot?" Raya murmured. As though he had heard the mouse, the ferret snapped his head in their direction. The force of his gaze made the two youngsters scramble back into the safety of their prison. Odd, Castus thought, how quickly they could find comfort in such rigid, unfriendly bars as these. The ferret began walking over to them with Kaltag following, his eyes cold and calculating as he looked the two would-be slaves over. He stopped in front of the cage and tilted his head, and then a corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk.

"Well. They're young, at least. Did you lure them out with promises of candied chestnuts, Kaltag?" he asked the fox behind him, his deep baritone voice shaking with laughter. Kaltag took a deep breath to compose himself.

"I would have had more. But I'll have you know I was placed on the front lines. I had to make all the plans. I coordinated the strikes of three different slaver groups-"

"Each more successful than you."

"That is beside the point! I wasn't told the wolves would be moving so soon. If Pepin wanted her slaves so badly he should have kept our heads above the water!"

"Those who cannot swim, drown," the ferret shrugged nonchalantly. "I'll report this meager finding, come what may. Pepin will deal with you eventually."

Kaltag opened his mouth to disagree, when the ferret hefted his battle-axe. "Enough talk. We're wasting time as it is."

He whistled loudly, and near Kaltag's convoy, a sickening sight unveiled itself from behind the trees. Burly rats and weasels pulled out a large group of wagons, much like Castus and Raya's, the squirrel realized. All with cages of their own, too. And in those cages were the most pitiful creatures Castus had ever laid eyes on.

They had been in captivity longer than either the squirrel or the mouse, far longer. Packed into the squat cages was a miserable assortment of beaten, broken beasts, of all species and ages. All with dull, spiritless eyes that stared mournfully out at the woods. Some still had vestiges of anger or sadness, but many seemed terribly, terribly indifferent to their plight. Castus put a paw over his mouth as he saw the rags they wore, the limbs that had once been strong and full of life now skinny and weak. Raya gripped the bars of their cage in a fury, tears beginning to form in his eyes as the macabre procession passed by all too slowly. Those were slaves. Not them. This was a reflection of their soon to be future. They were shadows of lives gone by, humbled and distorted wrecks of memory. It was dreadful to behold, those sad, wretched shadows.

"Not like them," Castus heard Raya mutter darkly. "Not like them. I won't go like them." Castus himself had no words. He shook his head, his face a mask of sorrow. His heart broke for these shattered creatures. He even saw a couple of vermin faces, as distant and lost as the others.

Even as they passed the solitary cage containing the youngsters who still had the spirit to be disgusted by the evil done to them, the other slaves barely even looked up. They seemed to be sleep-walking.

"Wake up," Raya was now hissing through gritted teeth, rattling the bars of his cage. "Wake up! _Wake up!"_

Abruptly, the blunt side of the ferret's axe smashed into their cage.

"Shut it, mouse!" he roared. "One more word and I'll have your tail, see if I don't! Move these cages, you louts, afore these righteous brats gab my ears off."

The shaft of the axe was grabbed by a familiar paw.

"Those… are _my _slaves, Trosk," Kaltag hissed. "I will discipline them as I see fit."

"Discipline?!" Trosk barked in amusement. "You haven't even taken the lash to their backs! You see those wretched souls over there? Only been with me three weeks and I've smashed the spirit right out of them."

He pointed at Kaltag's waist.

"Look at that whip, Kaltag. Hasn't been unfurled in days. You grew up on the mean streets, I'll give you that, but you were always just talk."

Kaltag's eyes widened, and he reeled as if struck a blow.

"You… how dare you!" he snapped, baring his teeth. "Just talk?! I'll show you just talk!"

"You will, will you?" Trosk sneered, unimpressed entirely. "You foxes and your big, grand plans! Look at me, I'll have Pepin's favor with the fruit of whole villages! Well where'd your master scheme get you? Two flea-bitten rodents who haven't even plowed a field. So wrapped up in your plans you can't even whip your own slaves. What, too busy whispering sweet nothings to your vixen wench to run a business? Keep talking, Kaltag! S'all you're good for."

He spat contemptuously on the ground and turned away. Balor growled at him as he went by.

The fox remained where he was in front of the cage, his paw not on the whip, but his sword. It shivered and shook with unspent rage. Castus and Raya had watched from the safety of the cage, waiting for Kaltag to snap and attack Trosk.

But then the vixen was at his side, a paw to Kaltag's shoulder.

"It's not time yet," Castus heard her whisper.

At those words, Kaltag's shivering decreased remarkably, but he still stared daggers at Trosk's back.

"One day," he promised through gritted teeth. "One day, Trosk. Keep your idiot brawn and that mighty axe. I've outsold you every time on the market. Your life has a price too, and I'll be the one to name it."

He turned to the vixen.

"Though we bear the scorn," he muttered.

"Though we bear the scorn," she repeated. They walked off as Balor hitched himself back up to the wagon.

The significance of that altercation, if there was any, was lost on Castus and Raya. All the poor youngsters could see was that all-consuming emptiness in the other slaves' eyes. Castus dropped onto his side and sniffed. Raya was in the back of the wagon, still shaking his head to that eerie mantra.

"Not like them… not like them… not like them…"

--

Evening on the ninth day had not brought relief from the shock of those slaves. Instead, it seemed to press in on the minds of Castus and Raya, as the enclosing darkness allowed no sightseeing to distract themselves from the terrible future they had witnessed. The caravan full of slaves was directly ahead of them, thankfully blocked from view by the bulk of Balor. Castus and Raya avoided looking at each other, fearful that they would see the same emptiness start to grow in each other's eyes, fearful of what they would say to each other, do to each other in the face of such peril. Castus had never before seen the face of slavery, and to behold it was more awful than he could have thought. That other creatures, living beasts with memories and families could be reduced to something so gaunt and hopeless... it tore his heart inside, making him feel an odd mix of revulsion and sympathy. He couldn't bear to see it not just because it was disgusting, but because he knew it was _wrong._ Whoever had done that to those poor creatures had no heart in them. They were just agents of evil and wanton cruelty, greedy for whatever gain they could get by stepping on the backs of honest folk.

He had to get out of the cage.

The travel, however, continued unabated, into a hilly area that ran by several streams. The path went around one such hill, and somehow, Castus and Raya had fallen asleep. They didn't remember when, only that they had simply closed their eyes to blot out the faces of the slaves they had seen. Perhaps it was the sounds of the running water nearby that had lulled them abed. The vermin were not in the mood for talking, forced to march half the night and all day as they had been, and the slaves certainly weren't saying anything. Only snatches of muttered conversation and the occasional cough were the only signs something living was about, save for the squeak and rumble of the wagon wheels. Inexplicably, Castus had started to grow accustomed to the noises. Acclimated as he was, it was easier than he had thought to drift away into a thankfully dreamless sleep.

He woke up again just as abruptly to the sound of something creaking loudly, and then snapping. There were shouts, curses, and a dismayed grunt from Balor. The wagon collapsed like it had fallen straight off a cliff, sending Castus momentarily into the air. He wasn't even awake by the time they started falling, and for a moment, he believed he was in a dream. A wonderful, care-free dream where he was floating like a bird in the cool night air. If he imagined hard enough he could see the trees from above, little circles of green shifting, swirling, smashing!

The side of his face cracked into the bars of the cage. His paws were akimbo, his tail tangled around one of his legs, and now his head hurt. Raya was shouting something indistinct. The world outside was a mess, a blur of colors tumbling end over end, just like Castus. He was oddly calm through the ordeal, being far too confused to even think about saying anything. It was just strange to him how things kept spinning, and his limbs kept knocking into things, and then it got very, very cold and wet.

When he opened his eyes again, the world was still spinning, though his paws were on solid ground. He was dazed and disoriented, and twisted about only to find he couldn't breathe. It was then he realized he was underwater. He flailed about in an absolute, instinctive panic, beating on the bars of the cage, praying one of them had broken in the apparent fall. He pushed, and found his head above the water, but then it knocked against the top of the cage. He coughed painfully and cast about for Raya in the confines of the cage, feeling his friend kicking and squirming like a serpent was choking the life from him.

Dizzy as he was, he ducked down under the water and grabbed for the mouse's tunic, then felt somebeast snag his own, and yank him forcefully out, Raya quickly following. The moment he came up, he gasped and squealed and squeaked like a newborn babe, but Castus kept a tight hold on him as they were pulled ashore. They were dropped onto a carpet of moss, left to the night's chill. Raya was still struggling weakly, coughing up a storm. Castus clasped him tightly to his chest, eager both to reassure his friend with his presence, and restore the warmth that had been stolen from their bodies.

"Idiots!" Castus half heard Kaltag shouting. "Bumbling, thoughtless maggots! Get that cage out of the water! Bind those slaves immediately!"

Castus felt himself momentarily torn away from Raya in the dark. But even as he was dragged painfully back up the hill, and his paws were wrapped cruelly in bonds of rope, he felt only some sort of unexplainable relief.

He could move his legs to their fullest.

He was out of the cage.

Escape was finally more than a dream.

--

A/N: I hope that didn't seem too confusing at the beginning, or the end for that matter... I suppose a summary is in order, a la Jade Tea Leaf?

The south has finally gotten confirmation that a wolf warband is pillaging its way through the Greymarch, but only scattered reports by bird have come in. None of the local militias have been able so far to get a message speedily south, for reasons unknown. A local council headed by Lord Hathig the hedgehog at Firedale, a stretch of land just south of Greymarch, has decided the attack came too swiftly for messengers to get organized. Without more knowledge of the situation they have decided to let Greymarch fend for itself for now.

Castus and Raya observed an argument between Kaltag and Trosk, the leader of a second, more successful slaver band. As the chapter ends their cage has fallen down a hill and broken apart. Castus and Raya have been bound, but they are now out of the cage, and Castus realizes perhaps Kaltag's misfortune can be their opportunity for an escape plan.

Kind of an abrupt end, yes, but I figure enough has happened so far. I have a lot planned for next chapter, so stay tuned! I hope the story isn't going too fast.


	7. Chapter 7

Even being out of the cage, with the full range of motion that being outside offered, Castus was finding it very hard to cheer up. For one thing, his paws and feet were bound, so tightly he was starting to think they were falling asleep and would drop off from blood loss come the morning. For another, Raya was next to him, shivering and shaking and looking like he was catching a cold. Neither of them spoke, being too exhausted from their ordeal to say much, and because they were too busy chattering their teeth. For all Trosk's talk about Kaltag's so-called leniency, nobeast thought it was important enough to dry them off from their tumble into the stream, leaving them at the mercy of the night's chill. Castus had wrapped his tail over his friend's back, but that didn't do any good because it was ratty and matted down from being soaked. So they had sat, in misery and cold, while Balor hauled the smashed cage and wagon out of the stream and camp was set up for the night for both Trosk and Kaltag's groups. Some axle had cracked from overuse, causing Castus and Raya's wagon to wobble and stagger off the path as a wheel came loose from the wild axle. The fox had spent ten whole minutes barking at his subordinates, who glared sullenly at him as though he were to blame for the incident.

They were stationed as far from Trosk's slaves as possible on Kaltag's orders, which Castus and Raya silently appreciated. They didn't want to even look at the others, but their situation was just as, if not even more precarious. As the only two slaves Kaltag had so far, they were apparently treated with closer attention than usual. Once the wagon had been brought up, Kaltag had dragged them both to a tree and put them under guard. At first Castus and Raya were grateful they hadn't drowned, but the strange looks they were getting from Kaltag's slavers made them flinch. They were a sign of Kaltag's failure as a leader to provide for his underlings, and yet at the same time, losing them would mean losing the only legitimization Kaltag had left, and he knew this all too well. After the fires were built, he personally came by and simply glared at both of them, ordering them tossed up near one of the main fires so they could dry off and didn't freeze to death. His stare was intense and malicious, and once, Castus thought he was starting to open his mouth to say something.

Instead, he sent a kick into the squirrel's stomach and stalked away, leaving Raya to force out a curse between chattering teeth.

The wagon, of course, would have to be fixed, and nobeast seemed willing to volunteer. In fact, even a fistfight soon broke out between a rat and a stoat, who had repaired the wagon last time, and who was blamed for the incident now. Kaltag had had to lay about with the flat of his sword to get the lazy vermin working at all, while Trosk and his group merely stood by and laughed at their clumsy attempts at organization. Settling down for the night was going to be impossible with them hanging around.

He paced warily among the slavers as tents were pitched and guards set up for the slave cages, watching as furtive glances were sent his way from time to time. Even worse, conversation between his and Trosk's vermin was light, frequent, and amiable. They might start talking about their leaders, their successes and shortcomings. And then they might start talking about how mighty Kaltag had only two slaves to show for all their efforts, with no attempt made to get more. Every word spoken between even his own crew was becoming cause for suspicion. He could see them now, muttering over camp fires and whispering on guard duty. Why was their leader being such a coward, running away with only two slaves to his name? This was supposed to be their greatest run. And now his rival Trosk, oh, he had much more to show for himself. A whole caravan worth of cargo to take home to Pepin, and look at how he had talked down to Kaltag when they met up yesterday. That cowardly fox could only sputter as Trosk walked away with the victory. Maybe working under Trosk wouldn't be so bad after all.

They had only been together a single day, and already, Kaltag could literally feel his control over the situation start to slip. He paced between half-erected tents, snapping at anybeast that even dared to approach him, inadvertently making his position worse. It made him look unbalanced on top of everything else.

Kaltag was not unbalanced! He was perfectly in control. This was just a run of exceedingly bad luck.

First he had only come away from Birchtown with two slaves. Two! He had four wagons that could be packed to the gunwales with slaves. But instead he had a tree rat and a runty mouse for his trouble. Those two had caused such a stir, making him panic. Making him lose control. Nobeast had ever done that before. In a few short hours he had made the decision to run, leaving this entire wood to the wolves. And he couldn't very well go back and get more now, could he? It was all because of those two brats.

So why hadn't he beaten their youthful vigor into the ground? Why hadn't he made their bones crunch and their faces mush? Why not make them snivel and cower in the dirt like that rabbit had? Perhaps he should have taken him as a slave too, instead of just giving him payment and letting him run. He was a fox. He didn't _do _things like honor bargains. And he was not nice to slaves. Not in the least.

But look at them, he thought with a snide noise of contempt, look at them with their own private fire! They had to be dried off, certainly, so they didn't die of cold, the miserable, worthless sacks of meat. Even so, it might look like he was starting to go soft. And he wasn't. No, Kaltag never went soft. He had plans to get to the top, and only the ruthless managed to get there and survive. Those two slaves were just lucky his life was such a wreck at the moment. Otherwise, he'd have treated them no differently than all the others. No differently at all.

Yet, there was something to be said about the way they had managed to sneak in and uncover his operation all on their lonesome. It was impressive, in a childish sort of way.

But that had nothing to do with their treatment now. He knew they were smart, and tougher than usual. He saw it in their eyes. They hadn't even broken down from hearing their town was dead. Probably still stubbornly sticking to hope. He would have it whipped from out of them, sure enough. But their market value was all the higher for their vitality. Healthy slaves did more work, after all, one very good reason to keep them reasonably intact.

But this was too much. He was being _too _nice. His own vermin would turn on him. Not tonight, perhaps, but soon. They'd start thinking that Kaltag wasn't leading them well enough, wasn't looking after their welfare. He had never ordered a fire for one of them, and yet his two precious woodlanders get one so they don't catch a cold? Preposterous.

Kaltag had to fix this, and soon. Very, very soon. Otherwise, his opportunities might slip, and he'd find himself alone. Or dead. Trosk would murder him in his sleep if he got half a chance. At that, Kaltag veered off and entered the wood a ways, looking over his shoulder as Trosk himself entered his private tent. He growled fretfully, remembering all the bad blood between them both.

The two had never hit it off well. Competing vermin leaders never did. They had met across the mountains near the great lake. Trosk had greeted him with a punch, and Kaltag returned it with a bite to the shoulder. Granted, they had both been drunk and angry about different things that night, but since neither of them had apologized or admitted to starting the fight, they had simply both decided that the other had to be an arrogant, stupid creature for attacking at all. The rivalry had sprouted from there into a towering shroud that had hovered over both of them ever since. Kaltag, however, had a feeling that if he wasn't going to go back to Frostmourn in shame, he would have to end it. He watched his vermin start to mix with Trosk's, bringing out private shares of grog and brown beer. The atmosphere would, for a couple hours at least, turn to gaiety and joking. It was probably then that Trosk would try something. Kaltag would remember to not let his paw leave his sword. The best way to deal with an insolent tongue, after all, was to cut it out.

As the camp was just starting to get settled, Castus and Raya found themselves in a very awkward position. They were stuck next to a tree, tied to it actually, and were being forced to listen to the bawdy jokes and loud singing of the vermin around them. Raya's eyes were on the slaves across from them, who had not said a word to each other as far as he could tell. They just sat there, listless and without direction. Their empty, hopeless eyes stared out at nothing. To Raya, it was horrifying. Every time he tried to nod or get their attention, they just looked away. They were without any hope. It infuriated him.

"Castus," he said quietly. The squirrel stirred quietly. He had nearly fallen asleep.

"Yes, Raya?"

"I don't want to end up like them. Tell me you'll cut my throat before my eyes ever get that empty."

There was a moment of solemn silence as Castus digested the request.

"I hope you're not being serious," he whispered, his voice light, concerned, and even scared.

For a moment, Raya considered saying something mean and nasty and hopeless. For a moment, he thought that since everything seemed hopeless now anyway, he should just hit Castus and say yes, he had been plenty serious and there was no way in Dark Forest that he was going to end up a miserable little speck of a slave. For a moment his thoughts were clouded with death.

"When have I ever been serious, Castus?" he asked in a deadpan voice. Castus picked up the irony and smiled calmly.

"We'll get out of this, Raya," he promised, a simple and naïve statement, but one that Raya clung to with desperation.

"Yeah, yeah," he replied. "It'll be easy as baking a cake once these idiots have had their fill of grog."

"Mmm, cake. I miss cake."

"Away from the fire, you runts! You're dry enough!" a gruff voice suddenly interrupted. A group of rats had come upon them, and dragged them back from the warmth of the fire. Too lazy to heft them into a cage, they just tied them to one of the wagons and left them alone, but still inside the light that they wouldn't be able to slink away.

Castus turned his eyes up to the trees, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. Those wonderful, tall, sturdy trees that never went anywhere. How he longed to stretch his limbs and escape through the branches, letting his tail stretch out behind him. And he'd run all the way home through them. How far away was home now? He had never been this far before. Not once. He could only guess vaguely that they were somewhere west of Birchshire.

"Where do you think we are?" he asked.

"Farther than we've ever been in our lives," Raya replied bitterly.

"Well… we'll get back. Just… think of it as one of those old stories we used to hear. They always had good endings. Ours will too. I know it."

"I always slept through those stories."

There was silence again, or at least a relative silence, given that the vermin were trying to forget their sorry position through the heavy consumption of brown beer and grog. They weren't afraid of being drunk. The wolves were far behind, and the slaves never made any trouble. Most of them were too weak to do anything even if they wanted to anyway.

"Who do you think will get the girl?"

Raya had posed the question so suddenly, Castus was stuck for an answer.

"Hmm?" he asked. "What?"

"You said this was like a story," Raya said with a dry chuckle in his voice. "Which one of us falls in love? That's usually where I fell asleep, but it seems every story _somebeast _is finding their match."

Castus had to find some humor in that, if only to forget where they were.

"Oh... well. I suppose they are. I don't really know. I never thought about it, and dad never talked to me about getting a wife. Not yet, at least. And anyway, you're the one who says females are trouble. Started to think differently?"

"Nope. Get your tail over here, I'm cold."

Castus didn't hesitate to throw his bushy tail over his friend's shoulders.

"So why ask?"

"I figure it's a good way to get our minds off things."

"Oh. Well in that case... I suppose you would."

"What, me?" Raya asked, aghast at the mere thought. "Why me?"

"Everybeast likes to see a rock like you get thawed out by a charmer. It's what always happens," Castus answered with a teasing grin, but kept his voice quiet. If the vermin heard them talking, they'd never let them live it down. They probably wouldn't let them live at all. At least it was hard to see them, away from the light of the fire, and it always seemed like vermin were finding something to distract themselves with.

"Oh, corks," Raya said, sounding genuinely disappointed. "I wish I'd paid more attention now."

He nudged Castus' shoulder.

"Well what about you, you're the dreamer here? You're smitten with Theresa."

"I am not!"

"Oh please, Castus, it was obvious the moment you set eyes on her. I bet when we get back you're going to tell her all about your little adventure, and she'll fawn over such a brave creature like you."

"I doubt it," the squirrel said sadly, a very sudden turnabout from his insistent denial. "Never been anything except a face in the crowd to her."

Raya, who was never one to be involved in the romantic affairs of others, had no answer to that. In fact, he knew it was true. Castus wanted to believe so much that old stories came true that he was pining after a beast he'd never be able to get.

"What'd you first notice about her?" he asked instead. "My dad said he first noticed mum's ears, because they were so big. Heh, and then she upends some soup over him."

"Her eyes," Castus replied without a moment's hesitation. "We just happened to be looking the same way when we first met... well, we didn't actually meet, we were just kind of looking across the room at each other... and she has green eyes. Beautiful green eyes."

"... What, so that's it?"

"What do you mean?"

"All you saw was her eyes and that's it? You've been stuck for almost eight seasons because of green eyes? You've never even talked to her! She lives across the county!"

"Of course I've talked to her! I mean... sometimes."

Raya stared at his friend, unimpressed.

"So you don't actually know her that well."

Castus seemed struck by this, and looked down at the ground in consternation, unsure of how to process that realization.

"Well, I-"

"Oy!" shouted a vermin across the camp. "No slave dares speak ta' me!"

Abruptly there was the sound of some kind of leathery slap, and a cry of pain from the slaves from Trosk's camp. Apparently, one of the slaves had said something wrong, or just said something at all, getting one of the vermin riled up. Castus and Raya were at attention at once, eyes peering towards the grisly scene sure to come. Their minds were frozen with fright. Another voice joined the vermin's, but this time it was deeper, more panicked.

"You hellspawn!" it said, and they knew at once it was a male's voice. "She was just talkin' about the food! You're starvin' the lot of us!"

"Shut up, you worthless pack of meat!" snapped the first vermin. "Unless you want more of the same!"

Castus prayed that the woodlander would have the sense to keep quiet. He didn't.

"Get me out of this cage, rat, an' I'll gut you!"

"That does it! Open the cage! I'll show 'im who's boss around 'ere!"

Raya bowed his head and looked away at the sound of the cage being opened. There were several strikes of something hard on flesh, and a few pained grunts. A stout hedgehog was dragged out of the slave ring and thrown into the light of the fire, while the youngsters and other slaves looked on in hapless horror. The hedgehog was already weak, that much was obvious. His girth was not muscle, merely flab stuck on bone, and his spines looked unhealthy. How long had he been captive? Castus feared the answer. But this pathetic slave had no fight in him. Nothing but words. There was no need. _No need at all,_ Castus thought, his mind starting to go numb at the thought of what was coming next. Outright cruelty had never been witnessed by him... not until now, at least.

The fact that the hedgehog was clearly harmless didn't stop his tormentor. The rat he had been yelling at stood over him with a cane, brandishing it fiercely. Castus and Raya seemed to see the cane come up in slow motion. Somehow they had known, in the backs of their minds, that being slaves didn't just entail being hauled around and kicked once or twice. But they had never really imagined what would happen here. The rat steaded himself before bringing his weapon down once, twice, and thrice again, mercilessly laying into the poor creature, who curled up defensively in a last ditch effort to save his life. The other vermin looked on dispassionately. Some were even carrying on their conversations like nothing was wrong at all. And some were even cheering their companion on. Balor watched the whole scene dumbly. He was too unaware or too indifferent to care what happened to the slaves.

"That's it Scutnose! Smack the talk right out of 'im!"

"Give 'em the one-two! See if you kin break somethin'!"

Castus' stomach turned, and still the strikes went on, each blow landing harshly on his mind. Raya was faring no better, glaring cold murder at the pack of slavers. It was a disgusting sight to the two of them. They had grown up sheltered, safe, away from horrors of war and slavery, never seeing more blood than off a scuffed knee, or feeling more pain than when Raya had broken his arm falling off a tree. Pain didn't change, but the circumstances were different this time. This wasn't accidental. It was cold-blooded, harsh, and completely uncaring malevolence. Castus could not see it. He turned away, and found his eyes had landed on Trosk. He was on the periphery of the camp, conversing with some of his scouts. At the commotion, he merely lifted his head, blinked, and turned back to the talk. Like it was nothing, that the fact that the hedgehog was slowly being beaten to death was absolutely, positively _worthless_ to him. He drank from a flagon with practiced ease and civility. They had plenty of spares, his simple movements seemed to say. He thought that one life didn't matter. If it was even life to him.

And suddenly, Castus was filled with indescribable rage. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to quell it, but every noise of the hedgehog's whimpers, every solid smack of wood on bone and sinew only made it rise all the more. His paws became fists and his tail curled tightly up against his back. He could hear his blood rushing through his ears. This was wrong. Not just a mistake. It was an abomination. Every fiber of his being was saying it, rising in volume and tempo with each heartbeat like some perverse chant. This was wrong, wrong, wrong. It went against everything he had been taught to believe in. The shock of seeing plain, careless evil went down into his very soul, piercing his heart. The calm of the night was forgotten as this monstrous act unfolded before them. Cold, hard reality was sneering at him, telling him that this was the way the world was. This was their fate. There was no reason to fight and end up like the hedgehog. What could he do? He was just a little farmer's son, destined to grow up, build a house, live in it, and die again. Not unlike these slaves. What could he do? Would he do anything if he could?

Still the beating went on, and none of the slavers thought it odd or out of sorts that their companion might actually kill the hedgehog, who was by now unmoving, resigned to whatever the rat would dish out. He rolled the bloodied hedgehog over onto his back and started kicking his vulnerable stomach, showing signs of tiring. But he wasn't just venting anger. He was making an example of this creature.

"Slaves," Scutnose spat, enunciating each and every word alongside a kick, "don't talk! Slaves don't think! And they do not! Threaten! Their! Betters!"

Their betters, Castus thought bitterly, tears starting to well in his eyes. _How dare they. How _dare_ they. Betters? They're the ones who should be in these cages! They're the ones who should be getting caned! I can't... I can't listen to this! He's in such pain..._

Scutnose continued for a few more kicks and had a couple of his companions haul the hedgehog to his knees.

"Now then," Scutnose said, breathing a little harder for his exertion, "are we in agreement that slaves do not speak unless spoken to?"

The hedgehog, whose face had been badly mangled, managed to gurgle out a few words.

"S-speak... whenever I want... v-v-v... ver, ver..."

Scutnose stared in bland surprise, as did his comrades. Obviously, he wasn't going to reach this one. Too bad. He was a strong beast with a big back.

"Idiot," he muttered. "Instead of life, you chose death. If you won't be cooperative, you'll be a corpse!"

He raised the cane again. And then another voice joined them all.

"_STOP IT!"_

_--_

Kaltag rested against a tree in silence at the far end of the camp, away from all the noise and hubbub of the camp. He had come here to rest his mind from all the trouble he'd been dwelling on. He had gotten himself worked up, and now he had to start his planning all over again. He had to think of something if he was going to get out of this mess. Trosk was going to take over the whole camp along the way. He knew that ferret. Trosk wanted only to increase his own position, not serve loyally like Kaltag! Why Pepin had given him any kind of command he had no idea.

Huffing, he picked up a pine cone and looked it over, running his claws over the hard contours. He let his eyes run over the simple, symmetrical object, losing himself in his musing.

He didn't even hear his vixen approaching from behind.

"You shouldn't let your mind wander," she admonished him. Kaltag dropped the pine cone and turned to face her, his paw going to his sword.

"And you shouldn't sneak up on me, Sheena," he said, miffed that he had been caught off guard, but also with a note of fondness for her ability to be covert.

"Why not? You enjoy it more often than not," she answered with a smile, and knelt down next to him.

"If the others saw you moping, they'd stab you in your sleep," she said with sudden seriousness. "You should be out there. Socializing like you always are rather than putting up such a childish front."

Kaltag snorted.

"Socialize? They'd only ignore me. They _are _ignoring me. I need to bide my time for a chance to humiliate that, that... fool Trosk!"

"And how long do you plan on waiting? Since when was one little setback like this such a stumbling block?" was Sheena's pointed response. Kaltag shifted uncomfortably.

"This isn't just one little setback, it's a disaster! I'm trying to think of something," he said lamely. Sheena huffed and leaned back, astonished and disgusted by Kaltag's indecision.

"Is this the brave and bold fox who eluded a dozen water rats by himself using only trees and berry bushes? The one I met in Stormport, who won me over with wiles and swordplay and clearing out an entire tavern single-pawed? The very same Kaltag who forced his way to where he is now using only cunning and his claws?"

"Of course it is!" Kaltag snarled, but there wasn't any force behind his insistence. Sheena leaned forward again, undeterred, close enough to where she nearly bumped noses with the male. He seemed composed, but she caught the befuddled spark in his eyes.

"There is a time for plans, and there is a time for action, my little stormcrow," she crooned, seeming to enjoy that she was starting to rouse anger in him. "I think the time is drawing near that we bear scorn no longer."

"Do you know something I don't?" Kaltag asked, squinting his eyes accusingly. Sheena only smiled languidly, the meaning obscure.

"Hardly," she said reassuringly. "I just hope that Kaltag, Pepin's rising star, hasn't lost his sword under all the secrecy. Hmm?"

Kaltag stared at her a moment, and then his nostrils flared. He snorted contemptuously.

"My blade is where it always was, and sharp as ever!" he declared, beginning to straighten up. "I never lack for plans. But neither for skill."

Sheena's smile was now clearly satisfied. She reached up to run a claw under his chin.

"Well. Once you get that oaf Trosk out of the way, perhaps-"

"_STOP IT!"_

Kaltag stood up so quickly he nearly threw Sheena back on her tail. He stared back at the camp. Trosk had been similarly roused. He quickly drew his conclusions on what was going on. That voice had been no slaver's.

"Oh, Hellgates."

--

Raya sat stone still, his mouth open, looking like he had been struck by an arrow, and was the sculpture of his own dying moment. His eyes were on Castus, who looked just as shocked as he. Even if he had been the one to cry out.

The mouse's ears were still ringing from the sheer force of Castus' voice. He had never, ever heard his friend as enraged or shrill as that. Castus had always been the quiet one, never headstrong or impetuous like Raya. Discounting the time he had climbed on the roof of the town hall. He had always thought his friend could stand to get some backbone, but this was ridiculous! He had just signed their death warrants!

Castus himself could not fathom what he had done. The enormity of his error was creeping up on him like Scutnose that was even now advancing on him, bloodied cane still in paw. He tried to scoot back and retreat, but his paws were tightly bound, making escape impossible. His heart was pounding in his chest, and his tail, damp as it was, flared out like a brushfire.

_What have I done?! _he screamed at himself. _I was just so angry... but I never meant to say anything! What a fool! I'm going to die! He's going to beat me to death like that hedgehog! _

Scutnose loomed over him, shadowed by the fire behind him, an angel of death in his own right as the fury in his eyes was made clear. "What did you say to me?" he said in a low, dangerous voice.

Castus' jaw flapped as a fish out of water's. Scutnose grabbed him by the collar with a single paw and heaved him to his footpaws. He was much bigger up close.

"Did you tell _me _to _stop?" _he asked, his fetid breath washing over Castus' face. The poor squirrel was so panicked, he felt he might faint at any moment. Words failed him as inexplicable terror filled his chest. He started shaking.

And suddenly, he found his face in the dirt. Scutnose had thrown him into the light of the fire.

"No!" Raya yelled next, but even though it was not nearly with as much volume or force as Castus, he still got a good whack across the face from the cane, sending him to the ground.

"Shut up, you!" he barked. "Or you'll get more of the same!"

The other vermin watched in curious silence, wondering how their friend was going to handle this uppity slave. Trosk stood nearby, arms crossed over his buff chest.

Castus was turned over and felt Scutnose's paw smash into his throat, pinning him down and choking him something awful. Over his plaintive gurgles, the rat looked up at his companions.

"Well how do you think we should deal with _this _one, eh?" he asked, and a number of creative suggestions were thrown out.

"Tie 'is thumbs to the back of a wagon! Make 'im walk behind it!"

"Naw, cut 'is tail off an' strangle 'im wiv it! Tree-rats jist adores their tails, yew know."

"Or better yet, tie each other's tails to each other's necks, and see who strangles the other first!

"Cut off his paws and make him march without them!"

"No, no. Best way is ta' cut up another slave in front of him! Make him feel guilty, yah?"

"That'd just waste another slave, yew idjit!"

Castus' mind was whirling with all the horrific possibilities. How could he have been so stupid? There was no way he was getting out of this alive!

"I've got an idea!" Scutnose yelled. "He wants ta' support the other slaves, does he? Grab that hedgehog! We'll tie 'im to the squirrel's back and make him carry the lug!"

A grim pronouncement was made as a weasel went to lift up the hedgehog's body.

"Oh, wait, Scutnose. The old bugger's gone and died!"

Castus and Raya's hearts froze. Died? There had been no point to that vainglorious show of anger? Was there no justice in this world? Scutnose did not seem half so concerned.

"Oh, well, even better! When he starts ta' stink, this little tree-rat will know how pointless it is ta' open his fat mouth." He tapped Castus on the nose with the cane.

"But first, little rodent," he snarled, "you made me angry. We'll see how you carry that bulk on broken legs!"

"Is that it then?!" Raya finally barked from where he was, having recovered from the blow to his face, which was already welling up into a nasty bruise.

"You're just gonna beat him up and leave him? Like some bullying coward?! Let me up, you twisted, warty, maggot-brained insult to rats! I'll show you! I'll... I'll fight you!"

The rat rolled his eyes and raised his cane to shut up the mouse for good, when suddenly a ferret spoke up nearby.

"Now, hold on, Scutnose," he said, swirling a goblet of ale in his claws, "I think he's on to something there. He's not all skin and bones like the hedgepig, and I've been wanting some entertainment. A fight might not be all that bad. You're sure to beat a runt like that. That is, if our glorious leader allows his slave to do so?"

He turned to Kaltag, who had been watching the proceedings nearby. Sheena was standing behind him, offering no counsel. He looked between the ferret, the rat, and Raya. And then, he shrugged.

Scutnose opened his mouth to protest, when suddenly more vermin clung to the idea, spurred by Kaltag's approval.

"Ooo, I likes that 'un! Good on yer 'ead, Skarus!"

"Yeah! A fighting circle! Bare paws, to the finish!"

"Go on, Scutnose! You'll lay him out flat in five minutes, I wants ta' sleep!"

Scutnose huffed, and looked down at Raya, who was still defiant and murderous. He did not have the fear that Castus had shown. Perhaps it would be a good chance to stretch his muscles.

"Bring him out here!" he roared, kicking Castus to the side, still bound. The vermin cheered and drew a large circle in the dirt in the middle of the camp, surrounding it as Raya was dragged forward, kicking and screaming obscenities. He was cut loose, but his paws were held tightly by other vermin so he would do nothing until the fight started. All of the slavers were chanting, "Fight! Fight! Fight!" in anticipation (save Balor, who only grunted dumbly along with the rhythm). Scutnose dropped his cane and stood in the middle of the circle, flexing his quite dangerous looking muscles and spitting on the ground. To the slavers' joy, Raya did not back down, nor did he look the least bit frightened. It was always better when they put up a fight. It made things more satisfying when they were finally beaten to a pulp.

Kaltag and Trosk stood apart from the rest, staring at each other on opposite edges of the circle. Both wished they were in that arena instead. They didn't care about the slaves, Scutnose, any of it. They were both merely watching and waiting for an opportunity to humiliate each other. Of course, Trosk would get some satisfaction that his slaver would be beating up Kaltag's slave. Kaltag could only hope the idiot mouse at least bloodied Scutnose's, well, nose. If things went wrong he'd be down another slave, but he couldn't stop an idea like this once it got moving. He might as well enjoy this.

Castus, meanwhile, sat and shivered on the ground in sheer terror, his view of the soon-to-be battle obscured by the crowd of vermin. He struggled about, ignored entirely, but unable to do anything except try and get a good view. There was no chance of him sneaking about to grab some weapons and cut the ropes. He could chew his bonds through, but... without Raya, what was the point? He couldn't just abandon him. And would the fight even last long enough for him to get everything off? It could last for minutes, or seconds. He didn't know how well Raya could fight, especially against somebeast who had grown up in violence. The mouse had been in his share of scuffs with other children, even a couple of tavern brawls (which Castus had had to drag him out of), but a fight to the death?

He found he could only wait, and hope.

Inside the circle, Raya was held tightly by his arms, and he had stopped struggling. The circle was completely closed, and now he had nothing left to do but try and beat the smug grin off of his opponent. He knew he didn't stand a chance. But he would go down swinging. For Castus' sake, if nothing else.

_I hope that squirrel appreciates this!_ he thought as a lanky fox stood in the middle of the arena, and raised his paws for attention.

"Right!" he declared, and at last the noise died down to an excited murmur. "Welcome, once again, to the Red Ring! We've got a loverly showdown tonight, with our very own Scutnose squarin' off against one very angry, soon-to-be-dead slave, still alive and kicking!"

"Get on with it!" shouted a voice from the crowd. "We know who they are, Pate!"

The fox sighed, and rolled his eyes. Clearly his fellow vermin had no taste for showbeastship.

"Well then. Some rules first, eh?" There was a chorus of boos from the crowd. Vermin had no taste for rules in a fight. They just wanted some blood!

"Now, now!" Pate soothed. "It'll make the fight last a little longer, make it more interesting! Anywho. Fight doesn't end till one opponent is on the ground, unable ta' rise to his own two footpaws without assistance! No_ intentional _killing, so don't sneak past any fancy-shmancy death blows! There'll be no maiming, only kicks and punches and the like! Claws are okay to grapple! And no hits to the malehood, stuff like that is just not done!"

A few vermin who had been in their fair share of battles nodded sagely and muttered agreement with that rule.

Already, a couple of the more wily vermin were placing bets, trying to get some interest into Raya. Perhaps such a spirited youngster just might trip up that lout Scutnose. It wasn't unheard of for a tough enough slave to beat a vermin in a pit match. Sometimes, back in Frostmourn, slaves even entered tournaments for perks and prizes.

Pate held his paw up, stepping aside so Scutnose and Raya could get a good look at each other.

"Release the mousey!" Pate commanded. Raya rolled his shoulders as his arms were finally released and breathed deeply, trying to work up some courage. It wasn't working very well, so he got some anger instead, ripping off his tunic and throwing it to the ground. He had learned in his first brawl that plain clothes were an encumbrance more than anything else. He imagined that the rat was Janus, that stupid, fat hedgehog who had caused him so much trouble. Just a big, dumb bully he had to knock some sense into, that was all. He could think nothing else save that this was only a marginally more challenging fight than others he had been in. The stout-hearted mouse curled his lips back and put his paws on his knees, trying to look intimidating. Scutnose chuckled as he removed his tunic and put his own fists up, ready to let Raya take the first swing. This was going to be fun.

Pate stood in silence with his paw in the air, letting the suspense build. The air became thick with tension as muscles tightened, fists were squeezed, and breaths were held.

Pate's paw came down.

"_TEAR IT UP!"_

_--_

_A/N: _Whew! I think that's my longest chapter yet! I really hope you all enjoyed this one. I think quite a bit of character development happened in here. Which is why I promise the next chapter will be nothing but action, action, action! I'll try to get it up by tomorrow, I don't want this to be too jarring a cliffhanger! And my apologies for not posting in so long! Been crazy at school.

Also, depending on how the next chapter goes, I might just merge it with this one later on. Tell me when it comes up, yes?


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: All right, all right, it's a few days late, so sue me. I had a rough day and I was smacked with homework and it threw off my writing! But I bet you all like this chapter as much as the last one.

--

The fight began without much pretense. Scutnose advanced on Raya, one paw out and open to catch any punches he might have thrown, the other tucked protectively against his chest. Raya was not going to be so foolish as to just leap in however. He kept at arm's length, keeping his fists up and over his nose in a protective boxing stance. Scutnose lashed out with his open paw to try and distract the much smaller mouse, smacking at his knuckles, but Raya was unmoved, instead dancing around just out of harm's reach. The vermin were already starting to get worked up, cheering for one fighter or another, cheering just to make noise, or yelling at each other over who had the best chance to win. The two fighters circled each other predatorily, eyes locked on one another's without much more movement. Scutnose knew he could probably lay the mouse out flat in two or three blows, but he had underestimated opponents before. He may have been a cruel, callous bully, but he knew how to keep his head in a fight, and a fight this was. Raya's steps were measured and purposeful, meant to keep him out of reach, but provide just enough leverage at the hips and knees to launch into an attack if need be. This would be interesting, Scutnose decided. He'd draw it out, put on a bit of a show, and then end the whole matter with a couple of haymakers.

Raya, however, considered this very much a matter of life and death. Scutnose was big, powerful, and muscular. It looked like Raya's own claws, even backed up by arms tested in the forge apprenticing with his father, would hardly make a dent on his opponent. If he actually landed a hit he might break a paw. He'd have to choose his hits here and rely on his smaller size, which was pretty much all he had going in his favor. One solid hit would knock him right to the ground, and then the fight would be half over. He kept his movements light, never grounding himself, always sure to know how far Scutnose could still reach. Raya, for a mouse, was heavy-set and solid, though that wasn't saying much compared to the raw power Scutnose could pummel him with. He kept his movements light and swift, remembering the sparse lessons he had learned the hard way from tavern brawls and wrestling matches with older children in Birchtown. Never let them get a firm grip, keep the tail tucked in but not too tightly, watch those feints, and when they least expect it, give them a tap on the nose to disorient them.

Raya did more than tap. Scutnose feinted with another fake grab at one of Raya's fists. The mouse ducked inside and sent a solid pop right to the rat's snout, and danced out of range. It was not as though Scutnose would not have been able to counterattack. But the fact that the slave had landed the first blow had astonished him into momentary shock. The vermin shouted all the louder at that, some booing, some actually cheering that this wouldn't just be a waste of time. Scutnose lumbered forward a couple of steps, his mind still reeling.

_How had he gotten in so quickly?! He's barely more'n a child!_

But then his chin erupted with a flash of pain. Raya had snuck in while he'd been distracted and bopped him with two more solid blows, bringing the rat back into the present.

There the mouse was, hopping back and forth, fists up and clenched, his lips pulled back into a vicious snarl. Scutnose brought his defense back up and powered forward with speed belying his size, determined not to be outdone by a mere woodlander. And a child slave no less. Now he would concentrate and send this little whelp crying home to his mother. And then he'd crush his throat with his bare paws.

Raya was forced back nearly up against the ring of vermin, who put their paws up to shove any wayward combatants back into the fight. This was what he was afraid of. Being confined, pushed in, caged. He had been in a cage once in the last week or two, and now he was being boxed in again! But he couldn't do anything, it'd compromise him if he tried to run around. He just had to try and dodge what he could. Scutnose launched a seemingly clumsy, ill-aimed punch that only brushed against Raya's open paw. But before he could close it again...

_THWACK!_

There was a mighty sound of flesh being struck. Raya crumpled, the entire left side of his face feeling fuzzy and out of place. Scutnose's follow-up to the feint had landed perfectly. And yet, Raya was not completely floored. A minor setback, his brain told his body.

The mouse stumbled backwards, into the paws of the vermin behind him. They cheerfully hauled him up and shoved him back towards Scutnose in one swift movement. In that one instant, swinging back up towards the conflict, Raya's mind cleared just enough, letting him focus entirely on the crooked-snouted murderer in front of him. Murderer. That's what he was. He needed somebeast to teach him a real lesson in pain! The rat, thinking it had been over already, had let his paws down in just such a way, expecting his smaller opponent to just collapse against him, dazed and out of commission.

What he got was an angry mouse sending a solid left hook straight to the side of his head. Scutnose grunted awkwardly as he was not gently nudged by a falling body, but fully _tackled _by a surprisingly solid weight. Raya ducked his head into Scutnose's chest and began _pummeling _his stomach, as tough and tight as it was. And then his fists started hitting everything they could reach, shoulders, arms, chest, with the rat too astonished by Raya's tenacity to react. The blows weren't affecting him as much as the fact that they were still landing, and they actually _hurt!_ What was wrong with this creature? He hadn't seen such a stubborn nature in something so young before. Slaving wasn't supposed to be this difficult. He stepped back almost halfway across the ring before he got his senses together.

He reached down and grabbed Raya's shoulders, and gave one mighty shove. Raya stumbled backwards, nearly losing balance as he clumsily planted both footpaws into the ground, and Scutnose took the opportunity to attack. Another hammer blow from his right fist went flying, but Raya was too quick this time. He dropped under the punch and sent two hits flying into Scutnose's rib cage, and another into his shoulder before the rat's elbow bent towards him and came flying backwards, clipping him in the cheek. He whirled on one footpaw from the force of the blow and almost fell onto his tail. Scutnose, surprisingly, helped him stand by bulling into him and smashing in the poor mouse's gut with two terrible punches. Raya was nearly lifted off his footpaws, and his tail went straight out backwards behind him as he collapsed onto his knees. His felt like it had been dented inward.

Scutnose was prepared to step back and let the mouse wheeze and cough a bit, but Raya had nothing if not a simply stubborn mind. Resisting the instinct to curl up, he forced himself to extend out and wrap a paw around Scutnose's waist, grabbing the rat's fur to pull himself up. He got his small claws in, little more than pinpricks really, but it was something. Scutnose, unimpressed, sank his own claws, which were large and dangerous, into Raya's back. The mouse cried out as Scutnose whirled and threw Raya away like a rag doll into the grass. But just like that, the mouse was up again, curled up defensively more than ever, and now bleeding from cuts on his back, but still as indomitable looking as when the fight had started. At the sight of blood, the vermin around them were going wild.

Scutnose snarled at him, showing his teeth. Already Raya was starting to flag. This wouldn't last much longer.

Raya, who was loath to show weakness to anybeast, especially an enemy, gritted his teeth and screamed at himself to stay up, despite the crippling pain in his jaw and gut. This wasn't just any old fistfight. It was a struggle for survival. For dignity and the chance to get out with some respect. It was a fight for the hedgehog who had died for no other reason than the rat decided he'd kill something. It was a fight for his home which was lost. Most of all it was a fight to ensure he and Castus got out of this alive. Poor Castus. He had only wanted a good day, and all this had happened. Well, a few more punches would set all this straight. But deep down, Raya knew he couldn't win. Scutnose was still standing tall and ready, and when he pulled out the real fighting tactics, the true pain would begin. Really, he had lost the moment he had challenged Scutnose.

But he'd never be able to look at his own reflection again, here or in Dark Forest, if he backed down just because of that.

Scutnose came in again, clearly done playing games. Raya braced himself for the inevitable onslaught. Punches came hard and fast, but he managed to dance away from the first few. Scutnose was relentless on the attack, pressing Raya, finding any opening he could. Raya tried to close up the gaps, no longer able to do anything except try and stay out of the way of the rampaging slaver. And then, he saw it. A quick, nice little opening right after Scutnose started withdrawing from a failed punch.

Raya's paw snatched out, and several crimson marks appeared on the back of Scutnose's paw. He yelped and appraised the injury. The mouse's claws had scratched him. Him! Drawn blood! The rat was now angrier than ever, and determined to end this as quickly as possible. He went in with a quick double feint, and then the punches found their way in.

_WHAM! SMACK!_

Two hurtled into Raya's stomach and shoulder, making him drop his guard, fully open to Scutnose's tender mercy. More blows came raining down on the defenseless mouse, on every bit of skin that Scutnose was able to find and abuse. Every strike was true and hard, and not once did Raya guess the rat was holding back. He could only sit there and take the hits until they came to a stop, if they ever did. Was he to die just like the hedgehog? He only hoped Castus didn't see it. And then came a veritable bone-breaking punch right to the jaw. Raya, now with many cuts and several bruises on the way, added a bleeding lip to his repertoire of injuries as he collapsed to the ground, holding up a paw in desperation to stave off further attacks. Blood dribbled onto the ground. He was bleeding above his eye and from his lip, not to mention the ragged puncture wounds on his back. Rational thought was gone now, replaced by survival instinct. That, and the desire to just keep going. Vermin were around him and his dander was up. It'd take more than a few punches to bring him down.

Scutnose stepped back with a satisfied grunt, knowing Raya would have to go down now. Instead, he saw something rather remarkable. The mouse, groaning with effort, heaved himself up, stamping first one footpaw down, then the other to balance. And of all the things he could have done, he went on the attack instead. He missed, of course, being hardly able to think and see. Scutnose began the beating all over again, yet somehow, with Scutnose focusing purely on attack instead of defense, Raya managed to land a few good punches of his own, even if they were to little effect. That wasn't the point for the stout-hearted mouse, though.

But even his own young body could only take so much. Slowly, he sank down again, to his knees, and then his paws. He could barely breathe now, bleeding from various injuries and positively beaten down. The fight was over. But Scutnose, who had barely broken a sweat, had one more lesson to teach the mouse.

He reared back, raised his footpaw, and with a loud cry, sent a shattering kick square into the center of Raya's chest. The mouse could only squeeze out one tiny squeak, and then he was laid out flat on the ground, wheezing and gasping and trying to open his swollen eye. Pate came up, counted to five, and without any reaction from Raya, declared the fight over.

The vermin clapped and shouted in appreciation. Good old Scutnose always knew how to put slaves in their place. But there had never really been any doubt that the rat would have won. He stood up straight and flexed his powerful arms.

"That's how you give a beat down to a talky slave!" he announced to his comrades, who cheered and patted him on the back. They completely ignored Raya, who crawled over to his tunic as the vermin crowded around. Every breath was painful, and the constant jostling from the movement of so many bodies wasn't helping at all. Nonetheless, he grabbed his tunic, tucked it to his aching chest, and waited. So he'd failed. Castus would just see him as some broken, pathetic little pile of beaten skin and bones. But then again, he had lost the moment he challenged that creature. He knew what would happen before he even opened his mouth. But he had to do it. He clambered out from the crowd of vermin, and finally met eyes with Castus.

The squirrel's jaw dropped when he finally saw the state his friend was in. He hadn't been able to see the fight, but had heard the highlights and the blows landing just as easily. He had imagined it'd be ugly... but nothing like this. Raya's face was bloody and bruised almost beyond recognition. He looked horrendous.

He began to crawl forward, trying to form words to try and comfort him somehow, but then he was interrupted by Trosk. The ferret had come forward all of a sudden, and snatched Castus up by the scruff of his neck.

Kaltag was on the spot a moment later, putting his back to the other slavers who had turned to face the new confrontation. All of a sudden the camp got very quiet, save for the crackling of the fires, an appropriate symphony to the growing tension in the air.

"What are you doing there, Trosk?" he asked. "That there slave didn't do anything, and he's not yours besides."

"He started it," Trosk answered, and both Castus and Raya noticed he had a disturbing, knowing smile on his face. He stared Kaltag dead in the eyes, a suspicious glint in his own. "He started it with his noise-making. Rather shrill voice. I don't like it."

Kaltag's stare was just as implacable. Only Castus and the weasel could see it, but the fox had his paw on his sword. "And what will you do, Trosk? Cut out his tongue? You'll have to pay the blood price if you harm a slave of mine."

Trosk motioned for two of his own to come forward and hold Castus up. He approached Kaltag with a slow, smooth gait.

"I think the question is… what _you _will do?" he asked quietly. "You didn't say a word when he spoke up against his betters. You put poor Scutnose at risk in the ring when your other slave… your _only _other slave… demanded a fight. And you granted it, out of the charitable mercy of your heart!"

"When your slavers need help defending themselves from pawmaids and litter runts, then you can have a complaint," Kaltag answered sharply. "Scutnose handled himself well."

"Did this slave?" Trosk asked, gesturing at Castus. "Did he handle himself well? Didn't he do something wrong? Shouldn't he be punished?"

Kaltag knew he had to answer carefully. The other slavers were watching. If he said something too neutral, he might look lazy. Too aggressive, and he'd look like he was kowtowing to Trosk's demands for blood. Too passive, and he'd be seen as going soft. His mind was racing. He would have to tread carefully and wait for an opportunity. But he could feel Sheena's eyes watching him from behind.

_A time for plans and a time for action…_

"It does seem… fair," he began slowly. "What punishment, Trosk? What punishment would you have me mete out, being so… wise and without peer in handling the insolent?"

Trosk smiled thinly and pointed at one of his captains, a burly stoat bearing a whip. Castus' heart went cold as that horrid thing was unfurled, and he couldn't help but struggle. It didn't last long, with the slavers holding him giving him two savage punches to the gut. The stoat came forward and handed the whip to his leader, who in turn offered it to Kaltag.

"The old fashioned way," he said with a thin smile. "Ah, but he's… your slave, of course. I wouldn't dream of stepping on your position."

"Indeed," Kaltag muttered, taking the whip. Castus let out a small groan, which went ignored. Raya was helpless on the ground, clutching his tunic to his breast. He had just been beaten, and he was about to see his friend whipped. The very idea felt like a stone dropping into their stomachs. Raya could only sit and watch on in resigned depression, much the same as Castus had seen him. But to the squirrel, things felt different. Unfair. He hadn't even been given a chance to fight! He was just going to get his back torn to pieces under the terrible lash. What would it _feel _like? He had heard of heroes escaping slavery, under the whip for seasons, and somehow they had endured. But… it felt so much more terrible when it was about to happen to _him. _He looked behind him as his arms were strung up against the bars of a cage, and the back of his tunic ripped open. He saw the whip coming down out of Kaltag's paw. The tip was split into several tails to increase the damage done to flesh, and didn't look endurable at all. This wasn't a hero's story. This was going to be nothing but disgraceful torture. He began shivering uncontrollably, trying to steel himself against the inevitable pain. He didn't know what it would feel like, so he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, trying to remember the anger he had felt on seeing the poor hedgehog beaten to death. He hadn't been broken. He had resisted shame to his death. If Castus stood up for him, he could do no less.

_The spirit of the North, _he repeated to himself, over and over again. The North lived in him. It _was_ him. Cold and ice, unbreakable and irresistible. The stuff that heroes were made of. He had to remember, he had to! He wasn't going to just break down after his show of bravery. Raya had suffered for him already. Now it was his turn, and he wasn't going to be any less courageous. He breathed in the cool night air, bracing himself. Slowly, the shaking ceased.

Trosk turned away from the scene and raised his arms to the other slaves across the camp.

"This is the inevitable punishment of everybeast who tries to raise his head. You're lucky, getting three lessons in a row. A stupid hedgepig who spoke out of turn, crushed by his own insolence. An uppity slave who thought he could fight and got beaten blue and black for his trouble. And now, this tree-rat. I hope this is enough for all of you, because no mercy will be shown hereafter. Death and torture await anybeast who speaks against the authority in this camp!"

It was obvious who he really meant.

Castus heard the whistle of the whip as it began to rise above Kaltag's head. He clenched his fists until his claws bit into his skin. He resolved to do his best not to cry out. There was no mercy in the fox's eyes.

"Slaves do as they are told!" Trosk continued bombastically. "Slaves never talk! They obey."

_Like I am to obey you?_ Kaltag thought to himself, beginning to spin adroitly on his footpaws. _I think not._

"I am the strength here!" Trosk barked. "I am the- glurrrkk!"

With a deafening crack, the whip had coiled itself around the ferret's neck. Trosk's eyes bulged frightfully as Kaltag yanked backwards, pulling the mighty ferret onto his back. The whip snapped away, and the fox stood tall behind the ferret, his eyes ablaze as he raised the whip again, and spoke a single word.

"Wrong."

The whip came hurtling down on the ferret's face, splitting skin and flesh from bone. Trosk screamed terribly and writhed in agony. Somehow, the tails had missed his eyes, but made a terrible mess of the rest of his skull. Again the whip came down, this time on his back. He arched up and saw Kaltag, the object of his hate and fury, with a languid expression on his face. Thrice more the whip cracked. Three more times Trosk howled, curling himself into a ball as stinging fire raced over his body. Finally, it stopped. The other slavers stood dumb, wondering what to make of this sudden turn of events. None of them had ever anticipated this kind of ferocity from the schemer Kaltag.

"You think you can push me around so easily, do you?" Kaltag snarled. "You turned your back on me and now you paid the price. I will not suffer being in your shadow. You will respect the authority I have over this camp, and my own slavers and slaves. So I have two, and you have many. You're the one lying beaten and broken on the ground, whimpering like a cub. If you ever mishandle my slaves or undermine my authority again, this whip will strip the flesh from your very bones."

He turned back to Castus now, who was still standing with his eyes closed and his tail curled tight. He heard the fox approaching him, and then… nothing.

"What…" he whispered, before the fox grabbed him by the ears and smashed his face into the bars of the cage.

"Say nothing," the fox hissed into his ears. "I can make this easy or hard for you. You're getting off light because I want the attention on Trosk."

Kaltag then cut Castus' bonds and dropped the squirrel to the ground. Castus looked up at him in surprise, then behind his legs to Trosk, who was rising, rearing his paw back to toss a dagger. Kaltag noticed his eyes widen and spun around again. The whip lashed out once more, and with another crack, Trosk had tossed the weapon, breathing heavily as his paw bled freely. Kaltag thought that the stupid oaf had had enough at that point, but he remained at the ready, his gaze steady and focused. Trosk was not put down just yet, it seemed. He staggered up, one paw after the other, his muscles bulging and his complexion absolutely livid. The other slavers continued to watch in stunned silence as Trosk rose to continue the fight, driven by an anger even Kaltag had not thought possible. Pure hatred was in his eyes, made all the more fearsome for the blood running down his face. With a clatter of steel the ferret had drawn his sword with his uninjured paw, brandishing it at the fox. It shook with unbridled rage.

"You…" he hissed, unable to speak properly due to the wringing Kaltag's whip had given him.

"You…!" he repeated. Kaltag slowly began to draw his own blade, not backing down as he dropped his slaver's tool. If the ferret was insane enough to go on, he'd finish him like his vermin would want him to. One on one.

"Go get your bandages, Trosk," he said calmly. "You're beaten. Please," he said sarcastically, wheedling his enemy, "don't make this any harder than it has to be."

Trosk was not in the mood for listening. Blinded by blood, hate, and rage, he charged straight at Kaltag. Both were skilled swordbeasts, but Kaltag was calm and uninjured, and had the use of both his paws. He had decided what he would do long before Trosk had even stood up. Their clash was quick, a blur of steel and noise. Trosk came in low, and Kaltag made a sweeping parry, their swords locked for a moment. And then the two were hopping back and forth, making great, powerful strokes that hardly anybeast could follow. Castus and Raya watched in amazement as the two fought around a small circle with kicking footpaws and short, bestial grunts. Castus seemed mesmerized by the sight. Trosk then charged in with a clumsy thrust, and Kaltag spun deftly, grabbing Trosk's sword arm as it passed by his side. Kaltag's sword flashed, and then Trosk was screaming like he never had when he was being whipped, and the paw that still gripped the sword was falling down, down.

Castus had honestly thought there'd be a little more blood.

And there it came, spurting and flowing hideously. Trosk was on the ground, clutching the stump of his arm and staring piteously at his severed paw, too shocked to cry out. Kaltag stood triumphantly over him, allowing him a moment to suffer, and then with a loud cry, drove his sword point down into Trosk's throat, nearly severing his head.

All went silent.

Kaltag, breathing heavily from the excitement, tore his sword back out, and looked up at the other slavers. Several who had been under Trosk's command quickly took stock of the situation and drew their weapons. Kaltag raised his sword again in readiness, and the ones loyal to him also picked up whatever lethal implements they could grab. Raya, somewhat caught between the two parties, huddled miserably, certain he was about to be surrounded by a bloodbath.

And then Balor broke out with a terrific, booming bellow that shook the very bones of the would-be combatants. The terrifying noise made one or two of them drop to their knees in fright, but Kaltag stood firm, his eyes glinting dangerously, malevolently.

"Let anybeast who wouldn't call himself a coward challenge me!" he snapped. "Hmm? Any of you?"

Nobeast came forward, afraid of the surety they found in the fox's eyes. Not to mention the gigantic wolverine with his claws out standing right over their shoulders.

"Well all right then," Kaltag said slowly. He cleaned his blade on his cloak and sheathed it.

"Get this carcass out of our way. We've only got a few hours to rest, and then we'll be moving on. Look at it this way chaps," he added as he saw a few sullen faces among Trosk's group. "It's one less captain's share to split! Give your loyalty to me and I'll see this group safely back to Frostmourn. Where there will be shelter, gold, and glory for all of you! Did you hear what Trosk had to say?"

A few curious vermin looked up silently, and others began to congregate around them. Already Kaltag could see the change. It was almost instinctive for vermin to choose a strong leader. Kaltag had just proven himself to most of them, certainly to the ones he already commanded, and only a few silvery words would get the rest over to his side. Who else was going to fight him after that display of vicious combat ability, not to mention with Balor backing him as always?

Gavril the weasel, who up until this point had tried to keep out of the factional dispute, spoke up to support his leader.

"Aye, that big balmy speech he was making afore Kaltag split his thick head open! Saying he was in charge like we were just more paws to swing whips with."

"Exactly!" Kaltag said with a smile. "There'll be none of that with me, mates. How many of you who served under me can ever say I treated you unfairly, like I was some warlord out for an army instead of a ring of companions?"

"Never!" cried out one of his own, who probably was just too worked up to do anything except agree anyway.

"Aye!" shouted another, surprisingly, from Trosk's camp. "Trosk was gonna take all the glory anyway! I say good riddance! Always acting like he was some high-falootin' lord instead of an earthy, proper slaver."

He sent a gob of spit at the dead ferret. With that, the deal was sealed.

"Stick with me and Pepin's favor will be split between all of you! Toss this body into the woods, and forget we ever saw him! An extra ration of grog asides, and when we get to Frostmourn, you, yes you all will have first pick of the loot we've gathered!"

The promise of alcohol and riches was more than enough, but it was a nice touch. As Raya crawled back to Castus, the vermin cheered their newer, tougher, younger, and not to mention much more generous and well-spoken leader. Trosk had always been rather stuffy and stoic anyway. _He_ had never offered an extra ration of grog, or first pick of the loot! They set about cleaning the camp with a will, wishing to be off to Frostmourn as soon as the sun rose. Kaltag watched it all with a victorious smile, flush with triumph. It had been a long time since he had had to test himself in skill and valor in combat like that, and he had nearly forgotten how good it felt. His eyes met with Sheena's, and though her smile was small, the wily spark in her eyes was more than enough.

He went to her quietly, and she led him back out of the firelight. The look in her eyes was inscrutable and enticing.

"I told you I hadn't forgotten my sword," he tried to say, but he was interrupted in mid-sentence by a passionate kiss that drove him up against a tree. He knew then and there that he had truly achieved victory.

Castus lay against the wagon as the slavers set about getting to bed drunk on hope and alcohol, hoping he had been forgotten, but it was not to be. Two slavers picked up Castus and Raya, and hurled them haphazardly back into a cage before they could blink. They watched the almost festive mood in disgust.

"So everybeast's happiness hinges on the deaths of two others," Castus said bitterly. "And the slaves just go back to their cages."

Raya suddenly smiled a cagey smile, which Castus noted with further incredulity.

"Don't tell me you're-!"

"No, I'm not happy about _this, _Castus," Raya wheezed, "though I am kind of glad Trosk is dead. Blighter deserved it in my opinion."

"He…" Castus began, but his voice died in his throat. Much as he wanted to, he could find little grief for Trosk, having known him only for a few days as a hard, calculating individual willing to harm anything that got in his way. Kaltag was no different, and had spared him the lash only because it had been in his interest. Still. Lives had been lost tonight, and their bodies would only be thrown away into the woods, instead of even getting a burial. The crows and other large birds that inhabited these woods would pick the flesh away, and no evidence they had ever existed would remain. So at last, Castus found the grief he had been seeking.

"Nobeast deserves that," he whispered under his breath.

"Anyway," Raya interrupted him, "I'm not smiling because of that. I didn't just get into that fight so I could teach old Scutnose a lesson. I got what I wanted."

He lifted the tunic he had yet to put on, and there in the folds was a dagger. Castus' eyes widened. Had it been Trosk's, or somebeast in the crowd's? He felt he didn't really want to know, and was smart enough not to say a word. Raya nodded in approval.

"Soon," he whispered, "after they're all dead asleep from all the excitement." Castus nodded imperceptibly. So something good had come of all this after all.

--

Sleep came swiftly to most of the camp. The night air was relaxingly cool for those dressed for it, the noises not too loud and the scent of blood buried under gaiety and heavy blankets. The camp was asleep. Even the slaves found a way to slumber. Cramped as they were, it was a blessing in disguise as they huddled together against the night's chill. The guards set up were sleepy and distracted, talking amongst themselves in furtive whispers of Kaltag's swift victory, and Trosk's sudden downfall. How the fox had turned bitter defeat into triumph! Surely he was a better beast than Trosk. None of them were interested in the slightest at watching their cargo. They were all asleep anyway, and the recent activity had to have discouraged them from trying to flee.

And in a lonely cage at the edge of camp, there was the soft, soft sound of rope being cut.

"Careful," a whisper said, "don't let it catch on the wood!"

"Hush," another answered, "I know what I'm doing!"

The side of the cage was lowered ever so gently onto the ground, and two shadows crawled out, mouse and squirrel together.

"Wait," the mouse said. "I've got an idea, get your tunic top off!"

The cage's side was replaced, this time with two rumpled tunics hanging from it. The shadow cast made it seem, without close inspection, that the cage was still occupied. Now shirtless, the pair made their way along into the woods, right under the noses of the slavers. They had crawled through this foliage as children. They knew how to be quiet. One of them, the squirrel, suddenly stopped behind a tree.

"Wait," he whispered. "What about the others?"

"We can't!" insisted his companion. "Castus, we have to go!"

"But they're still back there!"

"And we're out here! Are you crazy? We can't do anything for them. This is our only chance, now let's go!"

The mouse rushed into the heavy woods, not looking back. The squirrel remained, chancing one sorrowful glance back at the others. It wasn't fair, that they were still doomed to a life of slavery and he was out here.

"I'll come back if I can," he vowed under his breath. He remembered the hedgehog, how he had died so needlessly. His home, destroyed by ambition and greed. And the whips that would come down on these poor souls' backs.

_I'll find my way to Frostmourn and burn it to the ground if I have to. Just like they burned my home. I swear it._

And soon, he too turned away. There was a rustle of leaves, a flash of a bright, orange-red tail, and then nothing.

The forest soon swallowed up evidence of their passing.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: In case anyone's confused about Castus and Raya's age, I'd place them in the 15-17 seasons bracket. Or years, whichever you prefer. I just imagined they'd be called youngsters and children in terms of their experience with the wider world rather than to imply they're only ten years old or something. And if I still need a disclaimer... Redwall belongs to Brian Jacques. Not I.

WARNING: Long chapter full of character development, violence, and win. Actually I'm not too happy with this one. But I figured, if I've been gone so long, come back with a bang, yes?

--

Every instinct told him to run. Every breath of air that ripped through his lungs with the power of a thousand icy knives only spurred him on, pumping his aching legs and his heaving chest to get as much distance out of them as fast as possible. They couldn't stop. Couldn't slow down. They'd die if they did.

Castus and Raya had been running for quite some time now. The moon had moved through the sky, coming near the horizon, showing that dawn was just under an hour away. But Castus would not feel any better when the sun started shining. It would only make them and their tracks easier to spot. The only thing to do was run, and keep running, and never, ever stop. He didn't know where they were going, only that their legs were taking them south. He had never been to the south before. He had never even been out of Greymarch before. The farthest he'd ever gone was the borders of Birchshire, and that was all. He and Raya were at a total loss as what to do. It wasn't as though Castus had gone nosing about in the archives and memorized all the maps, as much as he had fantasized about faraway lands.

He rather wished he had now.

Though they'd been on the run for, he was certain, over three hours, he didn't quite feel the strain as much as Raya. He had been trying to pace their movement, alternating between leaping through the trees and hustling along the ground, giving only the slightest of breaks and giving Raya a shove when he needed it. The poor mouse was not built for distance, just speed, and he kept stumbling, barely able to talk through his gasping, heaving breaths. Both of them had slowed down considerably, down to a jog for Castus and a staggering limp for Raya, but even that felt far too fast. Though they were both fit youngsters in their prime, they had just suffered over a week of malnutrition and stress. Castus did not feel like he was stretching muscles that had burned for freedom. He felt like he was ripping up muscles that would rather not go anywhere at all. Behind him, Raya at last began to flag, dropping down on all fours. His limbs were trembling and his tongue hung limply out of his gaping, gasping mouth.

"Can't... can't go..." he managed to whisper through shivering, exhaustion, and a parched throat.

"Can't go, Castus... you... you go..."

"Shut up," Castus demanded as he returned to retrieve his friend. He bent down, grabbed him round the shoulders, and began half carrying, half dragging him across the forest floor. His legs complained severely at the extra burden they had to lug along, but he ignored it, squinting his eyes. He just had to put one paw in front of another.

"Not gonna... not gonna leave... just be quiet... let me do the walking."

Raya did not argue with him, nor did he even seem able to. He did manage to throw a limp arm up over Castus' shoulder, grabbing his fur with a weak grip. Castus wished they hadn't used their tunics as a flimsy disguise for their escape. Now he was down to a kilt and Raya to his breeches, and they had only their fur to protect against the cold nights (though fur was much better than nothing). What next, they'd use their undergarments as fuel for a fire?

At least the fog was starting to gather, which might help to confound whatever pursuit Kaltag would send after them. If they were coming after the escapees, Castus had a feeling they wouldn't last very long, and distance was their only defense. And that was why they had to keep moving, had to keep running. Except, he wasn't really running now so much as plodding. With the added weight of carrying Raya, he felt his legs finally begin to feel the strain, and he became slower and slower as they went along, until he was barely even walking.

"No..." he whispered in defiance of his body's needs, knowing in his heart of hearts they hadn't gone far enough yet. Something told him they had to keep moving, to just take _one _more step, drag themselves over _one _more hillock.

"No," he said again, his voice more resolute. He put on an extra burst of speed, and his head exploded with stars for some reason, and a cold chill went over his body. He realized he was coming close to passing out. He forced himself, _forced _his body to obey him and keep moving. There was no choice. It was either move, or die under Kaltag's whip come this time tomorrow.

_Once more. Left, right, left, right, ignore the pain, just breathe and breathe deeply. Take strength from the air of the North, remember your lineage and your pride. Would those heroes you read about stop walking? With a friend's life at stake?_

Through the haze of unfeeling, there came from a distance a familiar, comforting noise: running water. Quite a lot, by the sound of it. Emboldened by a chance to put a real obstacle in the way of their pursuers, he continued on, slowly losing touch with just how much he needed rest. It didn't seem important anymore. Nothing did, except taking one more step, never ceasing, never slowing. He felt like his body had long since stopped actually moving, and was simply floating along now. He wasn't going to last much longer, no matter how much he inspired himself. His body was simply reaching his limit. He couldn't see it, but the moon had dipped below the horizon. Morning was coming. The chase would begin, and if he didn't put a good safe few miles between him and the slavers, escape would be impossible.

The water itself was not as voluminous as he'd expected, but it would do. It was more a stream than anything else, wide enough for four or five shrew logboats to go side-by-side with relative ease, and the sight of water foaming over the crest of rocks below said that it wasn't too deep. But Raya pointed out the real problem.

"Run-off from the mountains," he said in a hushed voice. "It's too early to forge. It's freezing cold, Castus."

The squirrel stared blankly at the waters, looking to the left, and then to the right. There was no easy way across. He could see cresting foam here and there... he estimated it was no more than waist deep. He could do it. All he had to do was walk across it, and then he could rest. He couldn't stop here, though it was what he wanted to do more than anything else. He was about to keel over from exhaustion, his legs still hadn't worked out all the cramps in them, he was dehydrated and felt he could drink up the whole river. But if he did stop here, he'd never wake up, and this river was the only thing that might throw off or deter their pursuers. And he couldn't take the chance they weren't going to be chased for a little while at least.

All he had to do was get across.

"Hold on," he said to Raya. The mouse started shaking his head.

"No, no!" he gasped. "I can't, Castus! I'm so tired... we'll drown!"

"It's just water, Raya. Won't even reach my waist."

"Freezing cold water... you only need to step in it and you're gone!"

"That's not true, Raya... and you'll ride through it."

"You'll fall."

"I won't. If we don't cross now we might not get a chance in the morning."

Raya hung his head in dejection.

"I... I hate water."

"You go boating in the lake all the time..."

"Well I hate drowning then!" Raya snapped impatiently. "Even if we make it across our legs'll fall off from the cold! Can we not wait for morning? My ribs still hurt from that pummeling Scutnose gave me..."

"No. Morning's not far off anyhow, and then we'll _really _need to move," Castus said, feeling himself start to come down from the excitement, start to really feel the ache and lead weight of his limbs to the point where he didn't want to stand any more. They were wasting too much time here.

"Here," the squirrel said, and without a word grabbed Raya and pulled him onto his back. His legs cried out in complaint; Raya was short, but that didn't mean he was light. His breathing could barely adjust for the stocky weight. But it was only a little farther now. Only a little farther.

"I'm going... I'm going to do it," Castus said. "Hold up my tail, Raya."

"No no no no no..." Raya replied with a shake of his head, gripping Castus so tightly around the chest that he was suffocating the poor squirrel.

Castus knew he could not think. He couldn't hesitate, not even for a moment. If he stopped in the middle for even a second it would have been a second too long. So much could go wrong. He could step on a rock the wrong way and get a cut that would grow infected, or make him bleed to death. He could fall right over and plunge them both into freezing cold water, where they'd die before the sun even got to peek up over the trees. He could get across and then be too debilitated to go farther into cover and they'd be seen from the opposite bank.

Every moment he wasn't moving, he could imagine the crash of slavers running through the woods, getting ever closer. A thought occurred to him. What if all this running was for nothing? Were the slavers really going to chase them? What was the point of going after two slaves when they had a whole boatload already? Couldn't they just stop here and rest, maybe find a way across further downstream? If the slavers weren't chasing them, this was all a big waste of time and there'd be nothing to worry about.

But if Castus was wrong they were dead. There was no way they could outrun professional slavers, who could easily track the stumbling, haggard trail they had left behind them, and on top of that this was area of the woods they knew nothing about. And there was the real reason they had been brought out here to consider. There was a war on. His town probably leveled, his family killed or on the run. He had to find them. Even if they weren't being pursued, these were dangerous woods, with wolves and soldiers and slavers all about. Wasn't it worth it to get through them as fast as possible?

He looked desperately up and downstream once more, hoping a solution would reveal itself. Nothing. Only the river and his own legs, and the way forward.

_This is it, _he thought. _Great seasons, I hope somebeast is looking out for me up there..._

He plunged into the water and cried out as a thousand icy needles slashed into his flesh, nearly making him stumble right then and there. The cold was terrible, smacking into his body like a falling sycamore, almost stunning him into immobility then and there. Immediately it began sapping his energy as quickly as the running had. The young squirrel kept his tail high and struggled as the water got deeper, up to his thighs, then his hips, and then to his stomach. He cried out as the bottom of his tail dipped into the water, and Raya shivered, closing his eyes tight as his footpaws were submerged, flooding his mind with thoughts of some happier days to try and drown out the freeze that was quickly working its way up his legs. He was honestly wondering where Castus was getting all this energy; he knew he was ready to just drop down and sleep for days. But somehow, his friend was powering on.

Since he wasn't doing anything except clinging to Castus for dear life, Raya found himself admiring his friend in the back of his mind. The squirrel always looked like a soft dreamer who would turn tail at the first sign of danger. But Raya knew him better. He would never call Castus a coward... foolishly naive and overly sensitive sometimes, certainly, but a coward? He'd lay out flat the first beast who called his friend that. Of course, since his legs were slowly freezing, it was hard to give the squirrel compliments of any kind. He had an instinctive fear of drowning, stemming from childhood nightmares following the death of his uncle in a frozen lake. It was easy enough to hide it behind his tough demeanor back home, but out here, where they really _could _die, and there was no mother to run to after a nightmare, the fear was much more palpable.

But Castus, for all his spirited determination, could not keep up the pace. His legs felt like they had been severed, and his vision was blurred. He knew he was going to drop eventually. All at once, like the shock of the cold water, the realization that this hadn't been a very good idea crashed in on him. Still, if he could just make it to where they weren't going to be washed away by the current, he just might be able to last until the sun started to warm things up again. He powered on as best he could, shaking his head furiously. He wouldn't give up. He couldn't! Not here, not now! He wasn't going to drown in just three feet of cold water. He would make it. He would, just like his heroes. He'd push himself across and _then _give himself a rest, and his body could take its complaints down to Hellgates for all he cared. He stomped one footpaw down, then the other, determined to reach the shore that was so tantalizingly close...

He didn't make it. With the water still up to his thighs, he suddenly, simply collapsed. It was almost petulant, the way his legs simply dropped out from under him, now nothing but leaden weights that would not move no matter how much he tried to tug and pull. He had a fleeting sensation of his stomach going up to his throat, heard Raya yell something angry and sarcastic, and then cold water splashed up and over his head.

The first and last thing he thought was how surprisingly painless blacking out was.

And then, suddenly, he was on dry ground. Everything seemed mixed together though. He knew he was awake, but he didn't _feel _like it, and everything was moving fast and slow at the same time, slow enough that the smallest movement took an eternity, faster than his mind could register and remember later. He was being dragged over the ground, and somebeast was saying something in a warbling, mumbled voice. Or was it his hearing was just shot? Had his ears frozen solid before dawn and snapped off? His eyes went blank again.

When conscious thought returned once more, he was still, with his back on the ground. Or maybe he was just floating. Nothing really felt as it should, except for the fact that he was _warm._ This struck him as quite odd, since he was quite sure that just a moment ago he was submerged under freezing cold water, about to die a slow and painful death by hypothermia or drowning. But instead, he felt very much alive and well. He tried to open his eyes, but they refused. An agonizing brightness was in them, making him squint them shut again. Still the brightness persisted. Was this a dream, he wondered? Was he before Dark Forest Gates already, waiting to receive entrance? Through the foggy haze his mind was still wandering in, he wondered for a moment if his family was there. It was enough to send a stab of misery through his heart. The family line ended here, did it? At least they'd be together, away from war and destruction. Saved by death from a lifetime of hardship. From wanting to be a hero.

Castus tried to raise his paw to block out the brightness, finding humor in the fact that Dark Forest was actually quite bright.

He didn't so much as twitch before a cramping pain shot up his arm. The squirrel was jerked rudely into wakefulness, but that didn't help matters because he was finally realizing how terribly tired he was. That made him just want to go back to sleep, but he could not. He remembered, vaguely, why he was here. They were supposed to still be running. The slavers would be upon them any moment!

He wanted to get up, he _wanted _to, but his limbs wouldn't let him. He did manage to get his arms under him, but pushing up was another matter entirely. It was a laborious, heaving effort that made him shove himself up even the barest of distances. He wasn't exhausted, he told himself. Just stiff from the cold. As soon as he started moving again, he would be better. He felt the dirt under his paws, and gripped it tightly, crunching the bits of decayed wood and plant matter between his claws.

"So," a brittle, elderly voice said to his right, "you're waking up?"

Castus collapsed back onto his chest with a whoosh of released breath, and twisted onto his side rather than expend the energy to rise.

Slowly, his vision was starting to clear. The brightness was flickering and dancing around in his eyes. He blinked, and the dancing lights coalesced into a large flame. It was, he soon discovered, a comfortable fire dug into a shallow pit, blazing merrily and offering up a heat more relaxing than any Castus had ever known, the soothing kind that blanketed stiff, frigid bodies like his. The sky was of course grey with clouds, which would probably start another torrent of spring rain any day now. And all around was mist. Dark Forest, Castus wondered? No, he was still in pain, still tired and still so disappointed that he had not achieved a goal as simple as forging a river. Dark Forest, it was said, took away worries and anxieties like that.

"I hope the fire's big enough," the frail voice said again. "Couldn't get much firewood out of the house. Little Darcy always complains if the air isn't to 'er likin', bless her liddle 'eart."

Castus focused in on the source of the voice. It was a skinny, grey-furred mouse very advanced in age, stoking the fire with a short stick. His only garment was a dirty, plain tunic that reached down past his knees. He looked unwashed and slumped over; all of his movements were slow and purposeful. Age had long ago caught up with this one. Castus found he could only stare before he remembered how to use his mouth again.

"R... Raya," he rasped.

"Right behind you," was the answer. Castus spun his head so hard it hurt, eager to get a glimpse of his friend. And there he was, right at Castus' outstretched footpaws, a blanket now covering his bare chest and back, and something like an affectionate scowl on his face. Some of his fur was still damp, and he was sitting very, very close to the fire. Castus' heart leaped, unlike the rest of him.

"We're... we're alive," he murmured, trying to heave himself upright. Raya snorted, which seemed to use a lot of energy as he bowed his head and seemed to fall asleep, though he still talked.

"Aye, no thanks to you, mate... luckily... this here old one was there to pick us up. I've... been awake about an hour now."

Castus blinked rapidly as he somehow managed to get one leg under him, letting him collapse back against a tree. He lay there, paws in the air like a grasping babe, before speaking again.

"The slavers..."

"No sign of 'em," Raya answered dully. "Yet, anyway."

"If you were bein' pursued," the old mouse said, "you're likely safe on this side of the river. So many... so many troubles these days, even slavers will stick to themselves," he exclaimed, wheezing as he did so. He seemed to bow under a great weight from those words. "So much trouble. Little Darcy still finds time to cry, though, bless her 'eart."

Castus stared at Raya, who shrugged. Apparently he hadn't had the privilege of meeting Darcy yet.

"Where... where are we?"

"Just a little ways south o' the river you were forgin', a bit north o' the village of Stillglade," the mouse replied. "A right mess I found you two in. Luckily me an' Darcy were out for a... a little stroll. Same as you. We live in Stillglade, you know. Cheerful little place it is, always bein' visited by squirrels an' moles."

"Stroll?" Raya asked incredulously. "Sir, don't you know? These woods are fair teeming with wolves and slavers! Isn't there a war on?"

The old mouse pinched his eyes shut and a pained look flashed over his features. "Oh, I know about that, lad," he said in a hushed, tight voice that was so strained it sounded like his throat was cracking. "I, I know... I know. But that doesn't mean we can't have a meal, does it?"

Castus and Raya sprang up like they had forgotten all about the frigid river.

The mouse had collected a good assortment of nuts, berries, roots, and other woodland plants and herbs. Nothing that said he had just come out for a picnic from his village, the youngsters noted, but also nothing they would turn down after weeks of gruel. They ate at the meager provisions as though a famine were about to strike, while the old mouse chewed thoughtfully on a tuber.

Castus's paws were still stiff, and he sat as close to the fire as he dared. The heat felt so good on his bare chest. Surely, they would have frozen to death or stayed lost had this old mouse not come along. Either they were very lucky, or they had somebeast in Dark Forest watching out for them! And if the slavers had not caught up with the now, perhaps they really were safe.

He glanced over at Raya, who seemed to be having similar thoughts. There was a small smile on his face and berry juice on his chin as he gnawed on a parsnip. They had been through so much, yet just a simple meal given in kindness was enough for them both. It was strange how quickly a full stomach could change one's mood. And yet, Castus could not help but feel a pang of guilt for what had happened. What if that old mouse hadn't come along just then? Would he have really drowned? Would they have gone the wrong way, gotten themselves caught or killed? Castus had fallen. That was plain enough. He had failed in a way, or so he felt.

"I'm going to collect little Darcy," the old mouse said. "You two stay here and eat."

He walked into the woods a ways, and Castus took the opportunity to turn to his friend. Now that things were, at last, somewhat quiet and peaceful, he had to get the growing ache out of his chest. He needed absolution.

"Raya," he said quietly, struggling to keep his jaws moving, "about... about the river." The mouse looked up at Castus, apparently bemused. "And about... about everything," the squirrel continued, making Raya raise his eyebrows in surprise.

"Everything?" he asked. Castus held up a paw and spoke right over him.

"Yes, everything. I... I wanted to go into that stupid hall and figure out what those vermin were up to. I wanted to stay behind, get involved, I... I wanted to try and figure things out, Raya! I'm the one who got us into this in the first place, it's my fault we were separated from our parents and lost in the woods!"

He suddenly felt he couldn't stop himself. For days he had been brimming with guilt over what had happened, and seeing the still fresh bruises on Raya's body only spurred him on. He couldn't stop himself once he had started.

"Raya, all this time I've been such a fool, just a young, stupid, irresponsible fool. I wanted to be a hero and I got us almost killed, got us chained up, got you _beaten _when it should have been me to take all that punishment! It was me who crawled onto the roof of that hall and got us caught. It was me who forced you into that fight, me who tried to cross that river and almost drowned us, it was... it was all me, Raya!"

He collapsed back against a tree, breathing hard and looking at his paws. They were shaking. Raya stared in silence, a root halfway to his mouth.

"Ever... everything that we've been through, and I could have just... could have just stayed at home and helped mother with the chores. We could be _with _them now, with our families, dead or alive, we'd be together. And now all we can do is run for our lives and hope that somewhere they're all right. I... I don't even know if _we're _going to be all right. I tried to do something for us, for the town, for... for myself. We still don't know anything and we're being hunted. Nothing good came of it. Nothing at all..."

He didn't move, and neither did Raya, it seemed. Silence fell over the small campsite. It was then Castus felt a paw on his shoulder. Raya was next to him, smiling.

"Don't worry about it," was all he said, and patted Castus' shoulder. When the squirrel only stared dumbly at him, Raya shook his head.

"Look, Castus, sometimes you are a fool, all right? You never speak up except when you shouldn't, you never said a word to Theresa when you should have, you were always _far _too obedient and respectful for your own good, you're more sensitive than a newborn babe, and you listen to too many ruddy stories. But I do know that it took both of us to get out of that camp. I don't care that I got a little roughed up, that happens all the time. Maybe I kind of care we almost drowned, forging that river was still a dumb idea, in my opinion. But you wanted to push on when I was ready to give up. You wanted to stand up for that poor hedgehog. You wanted to try and stop the slavers. I was ready to just sit back and get angry at everything like I usually do."

He leaned back and spread his paws.

"We're here, Castus. We're alive. I should take some of the blame, I didn't snap at you enough to think sensibly. But listen. Some bad things have happened, right? But that's just... how things turned out. You and me aren't heroes, we never were meant to be. But you tried, and you helped us get out alive. If we had stayed on that side of the river, we'd have probably been caught. That mouse never would have found us and this meal wouldn't be in our stomachs. Look, I... I only know that we shouldn't be accusing ourselves of things that sometimes just... _happen._ Leave it to the storytellers to figure out who's to blame. I'm alive, you're alive, and we're on the move to wherever our families are. I'm not happy with how things are. But feeling guilty isn't something I do, and I'm not going to let you do it either. You showed some brave stuff back there, Castus. Stuff that I'd never do myself. And if that spirit holds, I'm fairly certain we can handle _anything._"

It didn't make Castus smile, nor did it make him feel any better. But it did make him nod, and see the sense of not wasting time crying over bygones. Perhaps he hadn't done as much as he had thought he would. But maybe that wasn't the point. Maybe all that really did matter was that they were still able to carry on.

"Thanks, Raya," he said. The mouse smiled, somewhat half-heartedly, and the meal progressed awkwardly onward. Castus wondered vaguely how old little Darcy was, and why such an old beast was caring for her in the woods. A babe should have parents to do that, right? Rather like how he should have his parents now.

The old mouse came shambling back after that, holding a small bundle to his chest.

"Finished, have we?" he asked, grinning. Several of his teeth were missing.

"Well, come on lads," he said, kicking dirt over the fire. "We need to get moving. Stillglade isn't far from here, and, um... well. We should get back afore nightfall."

"You mean it hasn't been attacked? You're certain?" Raya asked. The old mouse nodded tremulously.

"Oh, well, it has, but... it's not in that bad a shape," he said, smiling weakly. Castus and Raya shared a glance. Both of them were starting to think this kindly creature wasn't as stable as they'd hoped.

It was then they both caught the smell. It hit their noses like a maiden's slap, making them recoil instinctively. It was a rank, bitter, coppery odor that made them think of many horrid possibilities. Covering their noses didn't help. The old mouse finished putting out the fire and hefted his bundle, smiling obliviously.

"Little Darcy didn't want anythin'. I keep tryin' ta' feed her, but she doesn't want to get fat like her old Da, nope. She's too young for that. So... so young..."

He licked his lips and bent down to pick up what was left of the food. The bundle in his arms was very, very still for a presumed babe. A terrible, crawling, nasty feeling began to slither up Castus and Raya's spines.

The old mouse pulled back the folds of the cloth bundle.

Large, hauntingly empty eyes stared at them out of a small, broken head. The little mouse was completely still. The old one shushed her mindlessly and began cooing to the long dead babe. Inside the folds of cloth, dry blood was everywhere and having it exposed to the air only made the smell worse. Castus thought for the barest of horrible moments that he could see little white flecks of bone.

The stench of blood was thick in the air. Castus thought for just the barest of moments that it really was just a bad smell, but there was only one place that it could be coming from, in the babe's bundle, and then his head was spinning and Raya was coughing to cover up his dry heaves and suddenly, things just didn't seem as hopeful anymore. Castus collapsed to his paws and knees, staring at the ground as the gravity of their situation collapsed on him. They were stuck with a madbeast. The prospects of meeting anything living in Stillglade had just been stabbed through the heart.

He dropped his forehead against the ground and gagged as bile crept into the back of his throat. He shut his eyes, trying to forget the awful, awful emptiness he had seen in that pitiable, rotting carcass. It didn't work. Not in the slightest.

The old mouse rambled on to the dead babe in his arms.

"She just... needs to be washed up, that's all. She just needs takin' care of... she's still so young... so young..."

------

The trip to Stillglade did not take very long at all. It had actually not taken very long for Castus and Raya to recover from their shock, both of them knowing that it was pointless to try and reason with the poor old mouse. He looked so absolutely pathetic clutching that poor, still body that neither of them had the heart to try and convince him that it was a fruitless endeavor. But nevertheless, despite his lack of many other senses, he stuck with them until they were done whispering in hushed voices about him, pointing at each other and at him as they walked along.

"I'm telling you it's madness to stay with him!" Raya had snapped. "What use is it going to a village that's probably not there anymore? If he thinks that poor little thing is alive, I'm willing to bet that village is a smoking wreck!"

"Nevertheless," Castus had replied evenly, "it'd be unfair to just leave him to fend for himself! And besides, even if the villagers aren't there there has to be _something! _Shelter, maybe clothes. I'm not going to walk around in a kilt all the way to the borders of Greymarch!"

"Be that as it may," Raya said harshly, "what are you going to do after we get there? We can't let him tag along!"

"And why not?" Castus retorted. "Are we just going to leave him to die in the woods?"

Raya didn't have an answer for that. He just knew, he _knew _that it wouldn't be a good idea for the old mouse to stick around. Their luck had held so far, but it wouldn't last. It couldn't, not when Castus was trying to pick up a charity case... no, a _basket _case. The way the old mouse kept grinning and speaking to the wretched, dead babe was putting him off to no end. He just wanted to be _away_ from that terrible sight. Those eyes that didn't see anything anymore, and the awful, unforgettable smell of blood and slowly decomposing flesh, on a child... it made him shudder inside, made him want to forget everything and just start running again, run like he never had before, and not look back. Nevertheless, he followed Castus faithfully, more to keep him out of more trouble than anything else.

Neither of them could have anticipated what awaited them.

At first, it was a smell, like that of dead Darcy, that alerted them to the true fate of the village. It was the acrid scent of smoke and ash that permeated the air long before they even reached the place, making Castus and Raya bow their heads and squint their eyes, and the old mouse muttered to his deceased charge, "Cover your nose, little Darcy."

Stillglade was an apt description for the place. Not a sound was heard, not a bird in the air, not a rustle in the trees. Castus and Raya could see some wisps of smoke still threading through the air. The smell got worse, and for some inexplicable reason, Castus quickened his pace. A crawling, slimy feeling was working its way up from his stomach, like when he had seen poor Darcy, only this time, it was a hundred times worse. He had to look. He had to _see._ He knew, he _knew _with more and more certainty in each step what had happened, but still his mind was in denial.

In his and Raya's minds, Stillglade kept getting replaced by Birchtown.

Raya, behind the squirrel, called out for him to slow down, that it was useless now, but Castus did not heed him. The mouse sighed and sped up to a jog, leaving the old mouse waddling along behind them.

Castus' eyes began to burn from the stench. It wasn't just burning wood. It was flesh he could smell now. He had never smelt it before, but in the black corners of his mind, where fear and instinct ruled, he _knew. _Those same dark recesses screamed at him to turn back while he still could. But he didn't. He had to find them, to at least let them know that somebeast had witnessed their death and would carry it to others.

Raya was not so sensitive. He wanted away from this place, from that doddering old mouse, he wanted out of here and now. But his friend kept moving, and he was yanked along with him, as though an invisible tether bound them. Perhaps it had always been there, but he had never felt it so keenly, never wanted their bond broken so much as now.

Castus sped up again. Trees and bushes whacked him in the face, and then he was leaping over a large stone, crashing through a tangle of saplings, passing by an abandoned woodcutter's lodge, and then up a small hill... and then there he was.

The first clue he got that he had arrived was the palisade around the village. It had been necessary to construct such defenses for many towns, especially those looking to expand. But this was no longer a wall. It just a pile of shattered wood. All around the perimeter, it had been pulled down to remove traces of the village, and to allow the forest to reclaim the area.

Inside the former circle of protection was a pit of horror.

Stillglade had once held at least three dozen small homes and buildings. None were untouched. None were able to be lived in again. All had been burned. Inside the palisade circle, the ground was charred and ashen, a place where nothing would grow for some time. There was nothing green left inside it. Whatever vegetation the former inhabitants had allowed to grow inside their walls had joined the pyre. The former dwellings were just piles of blackened, charred wood. The skeletons and walls of some former homes were still standing, even if they were nothing but black lines scored into an already dead landscape, a mute and ghastly testament to the lives that had once flourished under their watch.

Castus took a step forward, his mouth dropping open in shock, his paws hanging limply at his sides. He was unable to think. Unable to comprehend that so many lives had been snuffed out here. That a place big enough to need a wall, loved enough to be given a name, safe enough to be lived in, could be so utterly and thoroughly smashed into the dirt. That in the space of a single night of destruction and carnage, it could simply cease to exist, that a home, a home that he could have loved and cherished and grown up in, could be blasted out of sight and mind by one impulse of hatred.

Raya was right behind him, and his paws were clasped over his chest, his eyes wide and his whiskers twitching wildly. Other than that he seemed a good deal more composed than Castus. More alert, more aloof. But unable to avoid the horror of this devastation. The same thought was on both of their minds.

_Is this what happened to us?_

Castus began moving forward yet again. Raya grabbed his arm

"Castus, no," he pleaded hoarsely, but the squirrel didn't listen. Raya groaned and pulled his whiskers as his friend adamantly stepped beyond the palisade and into the village. Back home it had been Raya making all the stupid decisions. Now, here, where things were a matter of life and death, his overly sensitive friend was the one never listening to _common sense!_

The old mouse tottered after Castus like a limp duckling following its mother. Left alone on the perimeter, Raya trudged in soon afterward, wanting to vomit every time his footpaw touched the dead ground beneath. Castus would probably need a shoulder to cry on after all this, so it might as well be his.

Castus walked past the desolate corpses of former dwellings. The fire had come through quick and dirty, leaving many buildings gutted but mostly still standing. They were dangerously unstable, but he walked amongst them anyway. He licked his lips, but his tongue was dry. His eyes felt puffy and tender all of a sudden, but there were no tears behind them. There was nothing. Nothing but dull, incomprehensible fear and sadness. When a vagrant breeze blew through, he imagined he could still hear the crackle of flames, the screams of the dying.

_How?_

He knelt down in front of a hut that had had the good fortune to keep the skeleton of its roof at least. Remains of a home were still inside. He could see a broken, sad little table there, a chair here, remains of bed cloth on the ground _there. _

"How?" he repeated in a whisper, as one who was dying.

"War," was the answer behind him. The old mouse was staring blankly at the young squirrel, watching as his mind battled between pragmatism and despair, between hope and misery.

Castus knew it was probably disrespectful, but he crossed the threshold and went inside. He was stepping on ash, and the thought would have disgusted him if he could actually think.

Children had run on the same floor, had slept in the same beds, had run inside to the same parents. Little ones. And growing ones like him. Lives had been here, now gone, all gone. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

And he had survived by pure _chance?_

"Where are all the villagers?" he murmured, and ironically stumbled on an _actual _skeleton in that same instance.

Raya watched as Castus' footpaw dragged up somebeast's arm, or what was left of it. A grasping, skeletal paw soon followed, black like the rest of the village.

Castus recoiled in horror and fell on his backside, crab-walking back into the street. His breathing was shallow and wheezy. All at once it was plain to him. Everywhere he looked now he could see the bodies; he had seen one and now he recognized them all where they fell, and it was impossible to avoid. Here was the body of a mole, his twisted, mangled corpse still sizzling. There were the bodies of two otters, side by side against a wall. A hedgehog's quills stuck up from under a pile of ruins. Death was everywhere. Raya knelt next to him, wondering if he was about to snap.

"I... I was the one who decided to leave," Castus said in a quivering voice. "I was the one who wanted to go. I was the one who got us captured."

"Yes," Raya said quietly.

"I... our home... we left, and we survived, and we avoided... _this..." _Castus began shaking visibly.

"Oh, Raya!" he cried. "It just... it just isn't fair! How... our home... it's... it's _gone._ Like this. But we survived because we... because _I _wanted to be..."

He put his paws over his face and began crying.

"What if... what if Birchtown is... I think it really _is..."_

"Don't say that," Raya said quickly. "Don't."

"I'm scared, Raya."

"Me too."

Raya had no further answer except to put his arms around Castus and let him rest against him. Both of them cried, but quietly, each supporting the other. There was no sobbing. Tears simply flowed in silence. Tears for the home they had lost, in both mind and heart now, for the beasts who had died. For the fear and uncertainty that they could be wrong, that Birchtown's inhabitants and their families could have escaped, but that hope would only make it so much worse to uncover the truth. They cried for the poor beasts who they had left behind, both in Birchtown and that awful slave train, who would never even be able to return home and cry for _their _loved ones. They cried for little Darcy and the others, young and old, who had died and would die before this was over. And they cried for each other. For the loneliness they suddenly felt, realizing that this was a bigger, meaner world than they could ever have imagined. That they were on their own in the middle of a disaster.

When it was over, they had only one thing to cheer themselves with. The hope that at least their families had escaped. If they didn't have that, there was nothing left and all this had been for nothing. They weren't ready to be on their own, but they had been dropped out here anyway.

They pulled each other up. That was all that mattered to them, now that the world had gone mad. Each other, and what they each cared for.

The moment was abruptly shattered by a fearful cry from the old mouse.

"Enemies!" he whimpered, but didn't run. He just stood there, fretting. Raya jumped upright.

"What? What do you mean?"

"I hear them... listen! I can smell them! They're coming back!"

"Who is? What?!" Raya demanded, grabbing the old one by the shoulder. He turned around, and his eyes were wild with fear.

On the wind came a howl.

"Wolves."

Raya stood dumb, as one struck by an arrow. The old one babbled on, sinking slowly to his knees.

Castus raised his eyes and stared straight ahead, blank and quiet. He heard the fear in the mouse's voice. And now the wolves were coming _back? _After all the pain they had caused, they had the audacity to come back? It wasn't fair. It wasn't just. It wasn't right.

He was tired of being a captive to fear.

"The wolves did this! I remember now! They came... but they were just the first! I heard them... a whole army... I heard them talking..."

"How?" Raya heard someone ask, but it wasn't him. He turned to see Castus standing up. His shoulders weren't hunched and his tail was a little higher, but Raya didn't notice the sudden change that had come over his friend. The old mouse was still talking.

"They came in the night," he said, his voice cracking. "We had no idea... no warning. The council had called together everybeast we could. We were going to leave, oh! We were going to leave! But they got here first!"

He put his paws in the ashes of a house and curled his fists. Darcy hung under his chest, bobbing like a macabre pendulum.

"There were over fivescore of us... and only a score of them. But they... we weren't warriors. They didn't care. They just... they just came in and... and...!"

He looked down at the dead mousebabe, and with a cry of disgust, he unlatched it and let it drop.

"They killed them all! All of them! I... I tried to help... I tried to save Darcy... I did! But it wasn't... I just wasn't fast enough... oh seasons, I still hear them screaming!"

Raya felt Castus brush him aside. The squirrel seemed to have made an abrupt turn about. His gaze was now a little more determined, his stance a little stronger. The squirrel knelt down and put his paw around the mouse's shoulder.

"Come on," he said quietly. "Come on. I'm not going to leave you. This place is dead. It's time to go."

"And they..." The mouse shuddered. "They _ate _them!"

Castus paused.

"What?"

"The wolves... after they were done killing... they took some of the stronger ones... and even the _live _ones... oh Fates I can still hear them!"

He tried to vomit, but nothing came out. Castus' face was set in stone. Raya was watching the surrounding woods wildly, watching for any sign of movement. Castus _dragged _the old mouse up this time.

"We're going," he said firmly. Raya nodded and hurried alongside.

"It's too late," the mouse moaned. "They're here... once you've heard them you're dead..."

"Shut up," Castus snapped, and another howl came. This one much, much closer. Just outside the village.

Castus looked over his shoulder, and for the first time in his life, cursed aloud.

He and Raya scrambled into the husk of a destroyed house, hiding further inside, behind a doorway that led to a former bedroom, but still had a vantage point due to the fact that much of the walls were missing. He could see the woods from there. From there, he could see the enemy.

Castus had heard many legends about the wolves. He had heard they were feral, beastly things, powerful, tall, dark and murderous. They wore the skins of their dead foes, bore wicked, foreign weapons but often were deadly enough to simply use their claws and teeth in battle. Every story told had been fearful, every word spoken about them said in a hushed whisper.

Castus could see now that all of it was true.

There were six of them, stalking out of the trees. Dressed in skins and rough tunics, only three of them had helmets, and only one had armor. It was a lamellar chest piece, probably scavenged from the bodies in the village. Though he was largest, all of them looked more than deadly to Castus and Raya. All but the leader equaled the height of any Skipper of Otters they had seen, and were certainly just as muscular; the lead wolf was of such size to be equal to a wildcat warlord, and then some. Even the shortest one, the only one armed with a bow and arrowss, had a buff, immovable appearance. All of them were adorned with fearsome tattoos of a design Castus had never seen, not even in the most wild woodland tribes. They walked with a slow, steady gait, strikingly confident. Their gaze slashed back and forth over the dead village, as if expecting some arch-enemy to leap up out of the ruins. Their paws did indeed hold foreign, cruel looking blades more akin to cleavers than anything else. No question could remain after that first, fearful glance that these creatures were warriors worthy of the legends that had surrounded them.

Both Castus and Raya marveled at their sheer size. Even the smallest among them could snap his neck like a twig, the way his paw engulfed the shaft of an arrow he checked, and then nocked onto the string. They seemed to have noticed something.

The party had seemed to halt. The leader spoke over his shoulder to the next in line, and they shared something in a voice that Castus could not hear. The lead wolf raised his paw, pointed to the one with the bow, and waved him into the ruins. Though at first he went without complaint, Castus could see a look of long-suffering cross his features when his back was to the group, who fanned out and stuck to the perimeter, rooting through the remains for anything of value. They picked up trinkets and weapons that were still intact, though the original raiding party had left little for them.

The old mouse was quivering on the floor next to Raya, paws over his ears. Fortunately, he was silent.

Castus bit his lip as he dug in the ash for something to defend himself with, his mind racing. Raya watched him in silence, his throat too tight to speak. He knew that they were in extreme danger. If the wolves found them, they wouldn't be given the mercy of being enslaved. They'd just be slaughtered on sight. Death was literally right outside, hunting for them. The young male wolf was crouched low, nose to the air as he moved through the center of the village, closer to their hiding place. No doubt the fresh scent of live prey was in his nose. Castus knew that if they were discovered, they had no chance. Once again they were hard pressed for survival. If they tried to run, they were dead. Nothing could outrun wolves on the hunt, and they were already tired. Neither Castus nor Raya had any fighting skill. Their backs were against the wall.

The young wolf came closer, following their scent trail through the ashes. They hadn't exactly been subtle coming in, disturbing the graveyard and walking around like they owned the place. And now they would pay for it. There was nothing either of them could do. Once the wolf found his way in, and he would, there would be nothing to stop him from killing them all. Closer and closer his pawsteps came. Closer and closer to the edge Castus was being pushed.

The young squirrel began breathing harder, quicker. All of a sudden it seemed like their story was going to end, like their lives would just be snuffed in the middle of a ghost town. It was ironic, and it was surreal. To think that they were walking, talking, reconciliating, and believing things would get better. And now in a few moments they'd be dead. Raya didn't seem ready to come up with anything. He was listening to their doom approach, perhaps thinking that if they were still enough, they'd escape. Castus was not willing to take that chance. He hadn't dragged his friend over a freezing river and seen him nearly get beaten to death just for it all to end here.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't just, it was all wrong, all this death and killing and he was _not _going to let it go on with him as a victim. Nobeast else would die here today. It was his fault they were in this mess in the first place. He had to try and make it all right again. These wolves had to pay. They were not going to make a meal out of them tonight!

Castus began casting about for a weapon. Raya wanted to know what the squirrel was up to, but wisely kept his mouth shut.

Castus chanced upon a sharp stake of wood. As he gripped it, a strange, iron-fisted strength grasped his heart and squeezed. He had picked that wood up with the intent to kill, and his mind and body had agreed with him. It was done. Either the wolf would die, or he would. There was no other choice. No other option. He didn't think about the insanity of trying to take on a full grown wolf with just a bit of charred wood. It was sheer insanity, ludicrous to even think about. Wolves were fairy tale monsters, and what was he? Just a young male with delusions of grandeur. But none of that entered his mind, as he tested the rather dull point. Just one thought flashed through his head.

_I'll have to get him in the soft bits, before he can alert the others._

There was no time to think about where that bloodthirsty reasoning had come from. The enemy was almost on them. Raya watched him with a panicky, pleading stare.

_What are you thinking?! _his eyes asked.

Castus stared at the old mouse.

--

Cadogan prowled through the empty streets of the dead village, his bow in paw and arrow ready to fire. He had an idea why Guthrin had told him to go hunt down the stragglers. It was because he was smallest, youngest, and least experienced. Young wolves were always pushed to the limit so they could be considered equals and run with the pack. He already _was _part of Guthrin's pack though; he had even seized some trophies on the last hunt, so he was forced to believe that it wasn't that he was inexperienced, it was just easier to push him around because he was young. Just because Guthrin had the ear of the tribe leader, he expected everybeast else to just fall in line with him. Admittedly, Guthrin was not stupid, nor was he harsh. But he had quite an ego.

Cadogan shook his head as he approached the broken down house. Perhaps all he'd find were some weakling villagers, half-starved and not even worth killing. These pathetic woodlanders had been no trouble so far. How had their ancestors even been pushed out in the first place?

He dared to let his paw rest against the blackened wall, wondering for a moment what manner of beast had lived here. The strange and terrible hares he had heard so much about in old stories? No. These were mere dwellings. Probably more of those smaller creatures that skittered about during an attack. Mice, and hedgehogs, and the like.

But why even bother with these places? Were these terror tactics really necessary? He had heard that honor came from the battlefield, not in wanton slaughter. Some of the eldest in his village had even said that they should be proud to have been defeated by such strong foes as the hares. The only beasts Cadogan had had trouble contending with were the mountain ferrets, and the wild squirrel tribes that inhabited the borders of their lands, so he didn't know. They had always had trouble with wild squirrels. In any case, it was known that theirs and other homes, woodlander and vermin alike, had been razed to the ground. This was not slaughter. It was retribution.

He heard a scuffling noise inside, and wiped all extraneous thought from his mind. This was his chance. He'd rush in, kill the first beast to raise a paw against him, and get this silly chore over with. Guthrin had no interest in prisoners, them being a foraging party, so he'd have to make it quick for whoever was inside. Death was a better fate than most any a live prisoner would face.

He sucked in his breath, and whirled around the broken doorway, arrow at the ready.

What he found was an old, terrified mouse. Cadogan kept his ears perked. He had smelt others... he knew it. The ash here was disturbed. Had the others already run and hid in the wreckage, leaving this elder to meet his doom? Cowards! He'd slit their throats for such black-hearted treachery!

He stood up slowly and carefully nevertheless, wary of a trap. Putting away his arrow and drawing a long dagger, he entered the building. The old mouse scrambled backwards. Cadogan passed the doorway Castus and Raya had hid in, but found nothing. Here the scent of others was strongest.

"Did they run?" he asked in his lilting, harsh tongue, before remembering nobeast here would understand him. He sighed and turned his back on the old mouse, figuring there was no threat to be had here if only elders and cowards awaited them.

It was the last mistake he would ever make.

As he turned, he opened his mouth to call out to his fellows. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of red fur, gritted teeth, and a long sharp something hurtling at him.

He didn't even have time to blink. As his neck was punctured all the way through, he could see a long bushy tail. Of course, he realized with the last of his rational thought. A squirrel.

They had always had trouble with squirrels.

--

Castus was surprised at how easy it was to stab the monster in the throat, considering how thick the muscles were there. His aim had been dead on, though, striking right into the adam's apple and cutting off the airway. The wolf instantly began to suffocate, drowning in his own blood that dribbled down the inside of his throat.

Castus stared harshly into the wide, pained eyes of his victim, still holding the stake in with both paws. Blood flowed out copiously, coating his paws and wrists. Yet still he did not relent. The wolf gurgled for a moment, and then suddenly grasped Castus' arm with an iron grip as he sank to his knees. His other paw came up, and Castus could see the dagger come at him.

Raya was there in an instant, tackling the wolf and grabbing the paw that held the dagger, preventing him from striking into Castus' stomach. They all fell to the floor. The wolf tried to whine, but it didn't work, and in a last effort of strength, rolled mightily, throwing his enemies off but losing the dagger as his grip slackened. He staggered towards the door, trying desperately to pull out the stake, even though it was obvious it was a fatal injury. He was going to warn his fellows.

Castus knew what he had to do. Snatching up the fallen dagger, he lunged forward, weapon slashing wildly, hamstringing the wolf and making him collapse to the ground again, falling onto his back. The wolf made no sound that the others could hear, and held an open paw up to their indifferent backs, a childish, pleading maneuver. Castus leaped on him and stabbed him viciously. Once. Twice. Three times, and then four, into the spot where he thought the heart was. The first three didn't get far. The fourth slid in with surprising ease. The wolf shuddered violently, and then went still. His suffering was over.

Silence once again filled the dead village.

Castus pulled out the long dagger and fell backwards, breathing slowly. He didn't even really know what he had just done. Raya, in shock, reached out and touched his friend's shoulder.

"We need to go," he whispered. Castus turned his head and stared at the mouse. His gaze made his friend retract his paw. This was not the Castus he knew. Not the quiet, vulnerable squirrel he had grown up. Something else was inhabiting him. Possessing him almost. His eyes, those eyes that always held calm and sensitivity, were ablaze with an inner fire.

"You're right," he said in a voice that wasn't his own. He turned to the old mouse, who was kneeling on the floor.

"Come on," he said, grabbing his shoulder.

"No," said the mouse. There was a moment of consternation.

"... What?"

"If I stay here, they'll think I killed him. It'll give you time."

Castus blinked, and some of the fire left him.

"N... no, we can't just... I'm not going to-"

"You risked your life for mine enough. I must return the favor. I will only slow you down out there."

"But you'll die," Raya said a little redundantly.

The mouse stared at them both with a sad, empty smile.

"I died with this village," he said quietly. "It is time I went to them. Hurry! They'll be here any second."

They both hesitated only a moment before scurrying out the back of the place to the woodlands.

The old mouse tottered over the wolf's body. He reflected on all that had happened so far. His life lived here in Stillglade. His name had been Warwick. He remembered the creatures he had known. Loves he had had. He washed his paws in the wolf's blood and took out another dagger, listening to one of the wolf's comrades stalk towards the house, demanding to know where his younger charge had gotten off to.

This was how his days ended. A sacrifice. It was fitting, he supposed, as he had little to live for. Those two were the only ones likely to make it. He closed his eyes as the larger wolf took in the scene before him, and his eyes went from shocked, to angered, to enraged. If he was smart, he'd soon realize there were still others to chase. But hopefully Warwick had bought some time.

Darcy had been dead for days before those two found him. He was tired of living for the dead.

Now, he would die for those who still lived.

--

Deep into the woods of Greymarch, following the trail of two desperate, dirty, and shirtless young males, a blood-chilling howl echoed. They didn't stop running, only increased their pace.

They knew they were really being hunted now.


	10. Chapter 10

"There's nothing to be done?"

"Nothing. Lord Hathig has said that Swiftwake and Hoster are to do nothing until we've gotten more answers."

"Do we _know_ what those answers are yet?"

"No! And if you're smart, you won't say a thing to anybeast. Hathig doesn't want a panic spreading through all the North."

"Then he'd rather _wait _until the wolves are at our doorstep?"

"He knows what he's doing, all right? If you were in his position, what would you do, _aside _from throwing away lives in some fruitless expedition?"

Koren didn't get an answer, and took the time to dunk his face and tail in the wash barrel, cleaning off the grit of his latest delivery. It had taken all day and all night, but he had done it. Back and forth the messengers had been running, in and out of Firedale. It reminded him of ants, scurrying back and forth as they were. Little yellow-scarved ants, and just as blind as the real thing, as most of the time the contents of most of the letters he delivered evaded him. The last one had been to one of the border guard outposts, perhaps telling them to keep a weather eye out for suspicious movement. But that didn't tell him anything, or at least nothing that would satisfy his companion.

The bank vole he had been speaking to, a perky, nosy fellow named Yorick, seemed to have made up his mind in the meantime.

"I certainly wouldn't do nothing," he said. "Certainly wouldn't just sit back and wonder at how all this happened."

Koren sighed wearily. While a servant at Firedale, Yorick had his own opinions about Hathig's rule. It wasn't as though the aging hedgehog was a _bad _ruler, nobeast would dare accuse him of such a thing. But this whole situation seemed to be getting more out of paw with every day that passed. Swiftwake and Hoster had not been content to wait the last few days for the final rulers to arrive, chafing with inaction. Now they were set to fall upon the new arrivals with all kinds of arguments about why they should go now, without waiting for more help or more information. All they knew was that their lands were in danger, and though Koren could not blame them, he still found it foolish that they would rush headlong into peril, dragging hundreds if not thousands with them. He was a messenger. He knew the importance of knowing what was going on before making rash decisions.

Yorick still stood in the doorway of the messenger's barracks. With his arms crossed and his brow furrowed, he looked like he was stifling something from getting out. Koren waited until he was finished with his cursory wash and stood up, shaking out his fur.

"All right, what is it?" he asked, exasperated. Yorick wasn't a bad beast to know, but he could be extremely trying, scurrying around and asking questions of everybeast. He was a gossip, and there were no two ways around it. Apparently, he had thought his services would be better rendered as a messenger, the way he was always skittering under other beasts' paws.

"I heard that Swiftwake and Hoster have been holding their own private meetings, outside the walls of the keep," he sniveled surreptitiously. "They say they're putting together their own plans away from the ears of Hathig."

"Like we didn't know that already," Koren said with a roll of his eyes, patting his tail down with a cloth. Yorick seemed perturbed that the messenger didn't feel more scandalized.

"So we're just going to do nothing about it?" he pressed. Koren waved a paw.

"What's there to do, confine them to quarters because they have little chats? Hathig's a fair ruler, but only of Firedale, and Hoster and Swiftwake are practically kings. They can do what they want. Much as I don't want them going behind Hathig's back, we can't put a stop to it. Besides, I really doubt they'll just march off without support."

He finished drying himself and threw on his tunic, winding the familiar yellow scarf around his neck once more.

"You know what I think? I think Swiftwake and Hoster are all just talk. Without support they can't do anything that wouldn't make them seem like fools. Once the other lords get here, they'll see the wisdom of Hathig's plan and it'll all go smoothly."

"Well, you can tell the other lords yourself," Yorick said with a little self-satisfied smirk. "They arrived about an hour ago, while you were cleaning up in here."

--

Nyana Swiftwake was not happy with the way proceedings were going. She had always been known as a creature of even temper and a calm demeanor, but as she looked around the grim faces assembled at Hathig's meeting table, she knew that the day would only take a turn for the worst. Hathig had set up the meeting to be as comfortable and lordly as he could make it, with beautiful tapestries hanging from the ceiling and soft candles glowing in the corners. Ornamental shields and weapons hung decoratively on the walls. Nyana would have much preferred the wide windows of her own home, so she could see the absolutely beautiful day outside. The sun had broken through the shroud of spring rain clouds, and the new growth was glowing with life. Days like this were rare, even south of Greymarch. One had to go a little further to the hilly lowlands bordering Goldenvale before reaching the temperate lands. The North was a dreary, harsh place, and bred harsh beasts. She reasoned that was why her father was usually so tight-fisted.

She sat right next to him, his lean, muscular body hovering over her. As usual, his jaw was set and his paws were clenched, and she knew she would be hard pressed to get a word in edgewise. The Swiftwake family had held the name Khunig for three generations, more than enough to prove their capability as leaders over most of the otters in the North. Yet there were some who, in recent times, had begun falling away, calling the new Khunig unstable and too stern. Nyana, who had been groomed for leadership ever since she was born, understood the concerns and the considerations. Her father was no lunatic. But he could stand to learn some humility, as did many others. She had grown up around politics and battle tactics, being the daughter of a warring otter king. Many times he had floundered with what to do with her, scared to leave at her home where she'd learn nothing, scared to bring her outside where she might get hurt. So in the end she had simply tagged along in the background, learning what she could from observing, reading, and listening. It had given her that ever calm, pleasant expression many creatures liked to see on her... especially males. She knew she was fortunate being an only child, though. Her beauty was not her only asset, and it wasn't even a requirement to be queen. Her father would want an heir, not some useless daughter he could just marry off. She was learning how to lead, not sew and do other such silly, frilly things. Yet at times like this she wished she really could just retire to her room and knit. Today was going to be a waste of time anyway.

The other leaders, a collection of shrews, moles, otters, squirrels, and hedgehogs, were all too ready to bark and yell just to make themselves heard instead of coming to a decision. The glasses of damson wine before them were completely untouched. The grim atmosphere was pervasive. Hathig sat at the head of the table, listening to the current speaker, a heavy-faced field mouse named Chirchid.

"As leader of Brightcreek, I would normally be the first to acquire notice of goings-on in Greymarch, seeing as we sit on its borders," he said, his large cheeks making his voice deep and wobbly. "Thankfully, despite the confusion we've been facing, we have at last received an update... of a sort."

He waggled his whiskers and smoothed out his tunic.

"It was a host of sparrows that had narrowly avoided being burned out of their homes by the wolves. We received them shortly before I got notice to come here. They tell us a grim story. The different provinces of Greymarch were unable to set up a united defense. The wolves struck fast, and hard, and we all know that Birchshire was one of the first to fall. But it's getting worse. Most of Greymarch is now theirs, and they are sparing nobeast. Refugees will be reaching the border of Brightcreek by now."

"Aye," said Rogan, a heavily scarred otter who had sworn his tribe to Swiftwake. "Just a week ago, before I got 'ere, my scouts reported families of water an' tree rats scurryin' out of the woods, towards the western mountains and highlands. Some even darin' ta' try an' head south ta' find what shelter they can. Armed bands of ferrets an' foxes, takin' mates an' children. Abandonin' the Greymarch like the cowards they are."

"Not cowards," Gawjun Sage spoke up from within his crowd of shrews. All the representatives from the first meeting were present, along with several recent arrivals, yet all respected the Sage enough to let him speak above themselves. This was one of the things Nyana found peculiar about shrews of the North: though they loved arguing as much as any of their cousins, when united, they were fiercely loyal and respectful. Gawjun's strength and temper must have been terrible to keep whole tribes of shrews in line.

"They flee because they must," Gawjun continued. "Because they are vermin and cannot afford to lose what little they have. Do you seriously think they would stay and fight alongside woodlanders?"

"We have a common enemy," Hoster interrupted, his bushy tail flaring. "And we are suffering, that much is clear. Perhaps they are running because _we _will not go help! Are we going to wait until all of Greymarch is burned to the ground before acting?"

"Well that's what we're here to _decide, _isn't it, Lord Hoster?" Gawjun snapped back. "At least we know the vermin are no friends of the wolves if they're running this fast."

"I am more concerned with what friends _we _have," spoke up a calm, female voice. Nyana turned to see Queen Bresna at the end of the long conference table. The tall, elegant squirrelqueen was Hoster's biggest rival in the North, lording over most of the squirrels that did not live in the forests. She was three seasons older and wiser than Hoster, and the two had no liking for each other. "Have we heard at all from Greymarch's strongholds? Ivybridge, or Icemoat Keep?"

"Icemoat was only able to send a single sparrow that told us of the wolves' coming, and little else," Rakis spoke up from Hathig's side, seeing as the hedgehog was busy conferring in whispers with Chieftain Whiteclaw. "We do not know if they mean to hold, or have already fallen."

"And when it does, the wolves will 'ave free reign," Swiftwake muttered darkly. "We can't wait any longer, d'you hear me?"

"Actually," Hoster said, raising a paw, "we have a little more information than that. Before the meeting I received word of refugees beginning to come south. They are a pitiable lot, and even less are armed."

"I received the same from the sparrows," Chirchid agreed. "Whole trains of beasts ravaged by war. They will be coming here, to Firedale, for shelter."

"From what the messenger gave me, none of them really had the sense or the drive to actually bring themselves together for a defense," Hoster continued, as though Chirchid had not spoken. The big cheeked mouse shifted uncomfortably and took a large gulp of wine. "Greymarch is not even contested anymore. The message was received just yesterday. That means for three _weeks, _Greymarch has been subject to a lightning fast attack by a large, unified wolf army. For three _weeks, _we have waited for everybeast to arrive, everybeast to give their input. For three _weeks, _there has been no unified resistance, no attempt to halt the bloodshed. Well, the situation has changed significantly. We've put off action long enough."

"If Icemoat is still holding-" Rakis began, but Swiftwake cut him off rudely, surprising even his own supporters.

"Icemoat will fall if we don't _do_ something!" he said loudly. "You just 'eard it from Hoster's own mouth! His squirrels are _in the woods. _But we've kept 'em from doin' anythin' except takin' in those we could've saved! We're livin' on the doorstep o' war! Why wait? For more information? The only news we can get is from frightened villagers who've never been out o' Greymarch! All those fit ta' fight 'ave no leader! We need to get in there and 'elp while there's still free woods ta' live in!"

"You would condemn that army to death, Swiftwake!" Hathig barked from his position, straining his old throat. "With all due respect to those who are suffering, who fear they will be next..." Here he glanced around the table, at Chirchid and the shrews and Hoster, who lived within or on the borders of Greymarch, "I cannot risk any more lives than have already been lost! The wolves control Greymarch by now. Attacking them where they hold the advantage would spell disaster! If we make our stand here, in lands we know and are familiar with... why, I daresay Firedale itself could throw them back."

"So you would wait until they are besieging this very castle?" a hedgehog chief near Swiftwake exclaimed. "My tribe is ready and willing! If Greymarch needs us to fight, let us fight!"

Nyana put a paw over her eyes and sighed, seeing where this was going.

"I and my shrews say different, Bracker!" Gawjun said, rising up from his chair. His ire had been stirred, and several shrews stood up with him. Hathig groaned. The moment somebeast stood up, it meant _everybeast_ had to stand up. Where had his authority gone in such a short time?

Sure enough, Nyana's own father was next to start barking like a mad fox, rearing up to his full, considerable height. "We don't need shrews, you lumps on a log!" Swiftwake bellowed. "Otters'll do just fine!"

"Sit down, all of you! I demand order as lord of Firedale!" Hathig roared, but that seemed only to make things worse. The volume of his shout had strained his voice, and he bent down to hide a fit of coughs. Chieftain Whiteclaw and Rakis, his staunchest (and quietest) supporters, looked on in dismay, shocked to silence by the disrespect being thrown about the once venerable meeting table. Rakis did his best to support Hathig during his fit, but nobeast else seemed to notice.

"If you want to murder us all with vainglorious saber rattling, Swiftwake, that's _your _problem! This is the biggest threat we've faced yet, and we'll not have our chances ruined by you!" Gawjun thundered, jabbing an angry paw at the otter, completely unimpressed by his physical advantage. His lungs could outmatch any voice at the table.

"Since when were _you _made speaker for Hathig, Sage?" Rogan growled from his seat. His proximity to the shrews made several of them waggle their noses and close their paws around saber hilts.

Nyana, who decided this had gone far enough, reached up and tugged her father's sleeve.

"Father, please, sit _down, _you're making things worse!" she pleaded quietly, but he ignored her completely.

"Aye!" Swiftwake barked in agreement with Rogan. "As Khunig of the northern otter tribes I 'ave some authority at this table! I demand our voices be 'eard! We need ta' vote _now _on whether or not ta' move!"

"I second that!" Hoster said, standing quickly. Nyana stood as well, hoping to simply _shove _her father back into his seat, but then everybeast else was standing, and shouting, and pointing.

"Look, everybeast, please! Is this _any _way for us to act?!" she shouted, but made absolutely no headway. She tried again, fruitlessly.

"I have a plan, do you all hear me?!"

Queen Bresna, who only heard her because she was closest, tried to raise her voice for calm, but was shouted down by Hoster, which of course got _them _into an argument as well about seniority and titular rights. Nyana was undeterred, but completely at a loss for what to do. She had only been at this table a few times, and never before had she something to say. But if somebeast didn't try to shut them up, who would? Her own father turned to her and put a paw on her shoulder.

"Sit down, Nyana!" he said brusquely, pushing her back into her seat. She scowled indignantly and stood right back up again. There they all _went,_ snapping and snarling, nobeast even turning to listen to her! She jumped on her chair and raised her paws, making her father turn back to her. She didn't notice Hathig and Chieftain Whiteclaw staring at her across the table.

"What are you _doin', _daughter?" he asked.

"Trying to get some order back!" she snapped in his face. "Listen to me! Everybeast, please!"

_WHAM!_

The great noise echoed through the hall as something huge and heavy struck the table, making it jump a few inches up and spilling every cup of wine. Chirchid, somehow, matched the movement of his own goblet and snatched it from doom, continuing to slurp at it from where he had sit through all the commotion.

The lurching table alarmed everybeast at the meeting, and with a collective gasp they jumped back or sat back down immediately. The ploy could not have gone better; at last there was blessed silence in the hall.

At Hathig's end of the table, Whiteclaw stood grasping one of the decorative swords, which was attached to a fake shield. He had taken the whole item off the wall and crushed it into the end of the meeting table, where it was now lodged indefinitely. Everybeast, including Hathig, stared at him in silence.

"Look at yurrselves!" he bellowed, his deep, bass voice ringing through the hall. "Sittin' daown at ee' gurt table fashioned boi beasts from all over the Dale! An' now a-barkin' and a-yappin' loik likkle babes! Shame on ee' all, burr aye, furr actin' loik this in the hall of gurt lord Hathig, burr! Shame Oi say!"

Nobeast had the courage to answer him. With one powerful yank, Whiteclaw tore the shield from the table and tossed it callously over his shoulder. It landed with a powerful clang that made everybeast flinch.

"Naow Oi be not a h'eloquent speaker loik ee' all," Whiteclaw sneered, "But Oi kin see we'm got ourselves a new voice, burr aye! Mizz Noiyana Swiftwake, Oi believe you were wantin' to speak mostly yurr."

Nyana blinked several times, and her father looked equally shocked. She licked her lips and took several deep breaths, not actually expecting to have been able to stand and speak. She stood nonetheless, and noticed her paws were shaking. She clenched them tightly to stop it.

"Me, sir?"

Whiteclaw nodded. Nyana looked over all the assembled creatures and took a deep breath before launching into her own speech.

"Well, I can say that it's probably my father who should do the talking here," she said.

"Aye," Swiftwake muttered, but a glare from Hathig quieted him.

"That's all right, lady Swiftwake," Hathig said gently. "Everybeast is offered a place at this table to speak their minds."

"Ah, in... in that case..." Nyana cleared her throat and clapped her paws together. "Uh, ahem. We all know that we don't know much. We can safely say Greymarch is a lost cause at this point, as horrid as it is to admit it. We can't _do _anything for them right now, and any action would just be seen as vengeful. I don't speak much at this table, but I do know this. Assembling an army for the march will take more time than securing our own defenses here! We have refugees coming, poor creatures who have nothing left, who need our help! What would it say of us to turn them away because we were too busy creating a war machine?"

"It would say we're not willing to defend them," Hoster muttered darkly.

"If we did march out we'd leave ourselves vulnerable," Nyana countered. "If that army you want so badly was defeated, we'd be stuck here with babes and elders and nothing left to fight with. We must do what we can with what we have. What we don't have is time, so we must make the best of it. I recommend we fortify our borders. Take in the refugees and herd them south, where it's safe and plentiful. Hoster, your squirrels are in a prime position to act as scouts instead of soldiers! If we know where the wolves will go, if we let them come to us and gather their forces, we will know _exactly _how to react! We've never fought these creatures before! Why risk an entire army when we know so little?"

"Here here," Gawjun said, along with several shrews. Nyana's father continued to stare at her, his paws gripping the arms of his chair till they might burst.

"You're saying we do nothing!" Rogan snorted. Nyana snorted right back. The uncouth gesture nearly gave her father a heart attack. She would have smirked at such a reaction; normally her father didn't pay much attention to her. But she was still speaking.

"I'm saying we do what's sensible and right," Nyana said levelly. "Perhaps we could even ask the vermin who are fleeing for assistance. Just ask them what they know!"

"If we can catch them," Queen Bresna said. "They're running so fast they aren't even _asking _for help."

A more deliberate, talkative air had settled over the table at last. Hathig could feel it. That little scamp, not even of age to rule yet, had just calmed an ordeal he had lost control of. She had introduced a sensible, calm plan and not backed down when it was challenged. Things might actually be looking up yet. Hoster, however, looked like he was about to have an apoplexy. How could this whelp even think of telling _him_ what to do with his squirrels?

"Well in any case, we need to mobilize, but not to march," Nyana continued, finding it easier and easier to talk as time went on. Why hadn't she interjected like this before? Seasons of quiet and solitude and now she was feeling, undoubtedly, what her father always did. The satisfaction of having your voice carry power and be heard and considered. "We must prepare ourselves for a different kind of flood from wolves. Woodlanders need our help. We must focus on them, and get that out of the way before we can even consider hurling an army into the middle of nowhere against creatures we don't even know how to fight. When they come, we must be ready to face them. Not flee or hide in castles."

Hathig smirked, knowing she must have had her own issues with his idea of using his stronghold as a weapon. Her time in the spotlight had made her bold indeed.

Khunig looked ready to say something. Hathig spoke up before he could.

"Let us vote on this matter."

The vote proceeded uneventfully. Nyana's calm speech had moved many, and her plan for a widespread fortification as opposed to marching a single, large army gained much support. All the leaders pledged some kind of assistance in moving refugees out of the way of the war and further south. Even Hoster and Khunig, though the former was scowling through the entire conclusion, and the latter was still staring in shock at his daughter's boldness. Never before had she spoken up like that. Never! Was he supposed to be proud, or angry?

"So it's decided," Hathig said as the meeting came to an end. "All tribes shall assemble to defend their own parcels of land. Our messengers will be consolidated to let us know where the next strike is coming. Hoster's squirrels will act as far-ranging scouts to see when and where we can expect such an attack. The refugees will be transported by our rivers with the assistance of Gawjun Sage and the shrews. All the rest of us will prepare to send forces wherever and whenever they are needed. Greymarch, for now, is lost to us, gentlebeasts. But not forever! Once we are prepared, we _shall _take the fight back to the enemy. I thank you all for coming. Now let us part for now and do what we must."

Hoster and Khunig were swiftest to leave, along with their handful of supporters. Nyana sat still in her seat, graciously accepting congratulations from Queen Bresna and some others, but she was very distracted. Her father had not looked happy on the way out.

--

Night stole up to Firedale quickly. The assembled lords and chieftains hurried off to scribble their messages and send them off, then retire for the night in Firedale's spacious abodes, or talk amongst themselves of the day's events in the dining halls or their own rooms. Hathig knew that factions could develop at times like this, which was why he preferred to keep everybeast inside the keep for now. It would force them to deal with the issues that had arisen rather than running away to their strongholds, and hopefully keep rebellious talk from spreading too quickly. He had invited several of them to dinner, but predictably, only Gawjun, Rakis, and Whiteclaw had arrived. Although, arriving late was a surprise: Queen Bresna. Hathig was glad to see he had one more creature that was willing to come to him and let him know that they could still stand his presence.

"I knew it, I knew it!" Gawjun Sage said triumphantly, raising his wine goblet high.

"I knew that that youngster had a good head on her shoulders, didn't I say it?"

"A better one than you, I expect," Bresna said with a smirk. "You were contributing to the commotion from what I could see."

"Well so were you," Gawjun retorted testily. Hathig cleared his throat.

"It seems we all had a lesson in humility tonight. And yet we have a plan for what's happening now, but we haven't agreed how we will contend with the wolves, for when they finally come for us our mettle will truly be tested. Firedale will be the obvious target. The largest threat. If we are destroyed, the wolves will have free reign in the North."

"I thought you supported staying back and watching for clues on how to act?" Rakis asked, taking a bite of salad.

"I did, and still do," Hathig clarified. "But we must be ready for anything. I am glad Nyana was able to reach a compromise of preparing for a war, but not one off our home turf. And yet we have many factions still splintered. Swiftwake, Hoster, and their supporters will undoubtedly try something. If Hoster's squirrels leave, our control of the woods is gone, and the wolves can march on out when and where they please. If Swiftwake leaves, we lose some of our best soldiers and a fearsome general. They know we have less control over the situation than we'd like to admit."

"Very few of us are actually prepared for war, as much as we like to call ourselves beasts of the North," Bresna admitted sadly. "So it is good many of us agreed that we must prepare here. But you are right, Hathig. Numbers will only get us so far."

"My shrews are always ready to fight," Gawjun said with a firm nod.

"And moi molers'll give 'em right billyoh," Whiteclaw added.

"Nevertheless, we must consider what that amounts to," Hathig said slowly. "We know Chirchid's clan and at least three other provinces are on our side. The leaders of Trigoviste town and Stillport, as well as old Akron."

"That old fogey's pine waste isn't much good to us," Gawjun scoffed. "Unless you're planning on beating the wolves back with turpentine and lumber."

"Trigoviste is next to the western mountains," Bresna remarked. "Their mines will give us a steady supply of raw material for weapons and armor, and their shield making is without peer. And Stillport, well. Their archery is practically legend in the North, so it's good they're on our side. They also have access to the largest rivers going south. A good way to get refugees out of our lands quickly."

"As Master of Rivers, I've sent word to them about that the moment their letter of support arrived this morning," Rakis interjected. "But I wonder if Goldenvale will really accept them."

"They must!" Gawjun insisted. "They're the Vale! Most temperate and bountiful place in the land outside of Mossflower!"

"We don't want to risk a diplomatic incident, nonetheless," Hathig said calmly. "We will wait for word from them before making a decision about evacuations. Now then. Trigoviste, Stillport, and Chirchid. Two of the biggest towns we know, and one of the largest mouse clans... even if those mice are, admittedly, rather useless in wartime. Even along with the smaller tribes sworn to our plan, that still leaves a good number unaccounted for."

"At least a third of all those who can or will commit... have not," Rakis said with a slow, sad nod. "The majority threw their lot in with Hoster and Swiftwake. I saw it in their eyes."

"Oi think," Whiteclaw said, raising one of his large digging paws, "that we'm be overlookin' a very important piece of work, burr aye. Noiyana Swiftwake."

"I've considered her," Hathig agreed. "And she will be instrumental in keeping Swiftwake from moving too quickly. A good head on her shoulders, as you said, Gawjun."

"A real head turner, too, don't forget," the shrew said with a rogueish grin.

"I will see what I can do about further grounding her support here," Hathig went on, chuckling. "If she pledges herself to Firedale, the tribe of Swiftwake, and all the otters they rule, will be at a loss, split between her will as the future ruler and Khunig's."

"Is that wise, Hathig?" Bresna said, squinting her eyes curiously. "Driving a wedge between father and daughter just to suit politics does not sit well with me."

"And me, neither," Hathig admitted, fighting down a nervous cough. "But if it will save the lives of an entire army and spare us needless bloodshed... well. I can only hope that Nyana has inherited her father's willpower."

--

"Insolence!" Khunig Swiftwake roared, pacing back and forth over the comfortable carpet in his and Nyana's room in Firedale. That he was confined to this stuffy castle was bad enough. That he had to contend with lazy, worthless cowards who didn't know an enemy if they came up and lodged an axe in their skull was even worse.

But the young, innocent looking creature sitting patiently in front of him had crossed the line today.

"To think me own daughter would usurp my position at Hathig's table!" he rambled on, throwing his paws in the air. "It's ludicrous! What'll the other leaders, think, Nyana? That your own father needs 'is child ta' come ta' his defense?"

Nyana closed her eyes and breathed deeply before speaking. It was always hard to keep her composure when father got angry. Having been worn down from the excitement of actually swaying a decision among leaders made it twice as hard to stay calm.

"With all due respect, father, you weren't making a very good case. I usurped your position, yes, but not before you tried to usurp lord Hathig's."

"That windbag of a hedgehog is only ruler of Firedale! Not us otters!" Swiftwake said, cutting the air with a downward swing of his paw.

"Maybe so, father, but _you _don't rule all otters either."

"Bah!" Swiftwake said, turning away. "I rule enough ta' know woodlanders need ta' stand up an' fight! How could you support turnin' away from the Greymarch, after all I've taught ye, daughter? We're leavin' the 'elpless ta' die!"

Nyana's lips tightened into a thin line. "I didn't... I didn't mean it to sound like that..."

"Well that's what's 'appenin'," Swiftwake said quietly, and went to the window. Nyana was ever so grateful for it. She turned to look outside of it, instead of at her father.

Swiftwake leaned on the wall next to it and stared at the darkness outside.

"I've done my best ta' shelter ya from the world o' politics, me darlin'," he murmured, his voice a growl. "But speakin' up like that... agh, you don't even know what ya did!"

"I was just trying to help!" Nyana said loudly, standing from her chair. "Everybeast was shouting and getting nowhere, and you know, you _know _we can't march into Greymarch without them! My plan isn't the only one with flaws!"

Swiftwake didn't answer, prompting Nyana to turn away and sit down again, sighing heavily as she buried her face in her paws. Silence reigned save for the flicker of their candles.

"It's not just about plans an' flaws," her father said at last in a hoarse voice. "They'll try ta' take you, daughter."

"Take me?"

"I mean they'll see you as a supporter. Somebeast ta' supplant me. They're goin' ta' use you ta' convince the others I'm not fit ta' rule."

Nyana stared blankly, her mouth hanging slightly open. Not fit to rule? Her father had his flaws, but how could they think that _she _would actually turn against him? And how could _he_ think that she would actually make herself complicit in such scheming! The very thought was reprehensible.

"Wha... they wouldn't!" she blurted out. "I wouldn't! Father, how could you say that?"

"That's what they _do,"_ Swiftwake insisted. "They're tryin' ta' undermine me, an' you'll be an avenue ta' do it!"

"No!" Nyana said, shaking her head as fear gripped her. Had she really been responsible for putting her father in such a position? Was it really all her fault?

"Father, no. If you had just... if you had cooperated, then they'd-"

"Cooperate?!" her father snapped. "In what? Watchin' the deaths of innocents? Hangin' back an' shamin' our legacy by refusin' ta' fight?"

"Father, this is... this isn't what I _meant-"_

"Then why not support me?" Swiftwake thundered. "Why are ya' so willin' ta' fall into their schemes?"

"We don't _have _to be their enemy, father!" Nyana pleaded, hurrying forward and grabbing his tunic. "It's just... I... why are you so eager to _fight?"_

"Because we _have _to!" Swiftwake tore himself from his daughter's grasp and returned to the window, leaning on the sill with one paw and putting the other on his hip. "My father an' my father's father were never afraid o' war. I'll not be called the first ta' be afraid ta' march!"

"This isn't about proving courage! It's about saving _lives!"_

Swiftwake had no answer. Nyana's breathing had quickened, and she feared her emotions might get the best of her. She could deal with other creatures easily, but this... she loved her father so dearly, and to see him make her choose sides was too much. She felt a crushing pressure begin to weigh down on her heart. The walls seemed much closer than they used to, and the heat of the candles was stifling. She licked her lips and took a terrible chance.

"Is it because of... of mom?" she asked meekly. That got a reaction. Swiftwake hunched his shoulders and recoiled from an invisible blow. Nyana pressed onward.

"Is it... because you... because we lost her? You weren't able to keep her safe, so now you're trying to help everybeast everywhere?"

There was no answer. Nyana took a few hesitant steps forward.

"Please, father... you _know _she'd be proud no matter what you did. Is it so much to swallow your pride? If not for my sake then do it for hers!"

"Don't speak of her," Swiftwake said with a shake of his head. That objection caused another of Nyana's barriers to break down.

"Why _not?!" _she snapped suddenly, and her eyes began to sting with the beginning of tears. "Why can't I? She was my mother! I miss her! I _love _her! But _I _was able to move on! When I was still growing, when you were burying yourself in work, I had to go back to my room and sit and wait for _you _to come back from being a hero, to learn so many things just by watching you from afar! Have you any idea how much it hurt us? How much it _will _hurt us? The only wars we've been in are with petty vermin tribes and mobs! This challenge is too big for us to fight alone! Charging it like some madbeast isn't going to bring her back!"

"_SILENCE!"_

The shout cracked the air like a whip. Its echoes rang back and forth on the walls, ringing like bells in Nyana's ears. Everything about her calm demeanor crumbled swiftly in the face of her father's fury, and more and more she looked like the young, gentle creature she was, rather than the strong, budding queen she wanted to be. She stared in wide-eyed shock at her father, who had never looked more grievous and more furious. He reared over her, his paws clenched and his chest heaving. His cry had smashed all remaining barriers, and tears began to well up unbidden. Never before had he used that kind of tone, not even when they had butted heads at their worst.

Without another word, she turned and fled the room.

Khunig Swiftwake didn't seem to recover himself until the door slammed shut. He looked around, blinking quickly as if waking from a dream. He was alone. Nyana was gone. She was _gone. _He had chased her away.

He staggered over to his bed in the next room, sat down, and put his head in his paws. After a moment, he reached into his tunic and pulled out a small locket. His claws hesitated, and then he flipped it open, staring at the picture inside.

He barely moved an inch until morning.

--

A/N: I'm really worried about this one. I meant to just write the first section with Koren to get over writer's block, but then it exploded into this and I had to make it a whole chapter! Am I focusing too much on minor characters? Introducing too many? Or is it all just improving the story? Please tell me!


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Has it already been a month? Holy cow. I am terrible at updating stories. I'm so sorry to make readers wait... hopefully with school coming to a close I'll be able to get more chapters out. Speaking of which... eleven chapters! Woo! I almost never get that far!

--

Rain.

Castus should have expected rain. It was common around this time of year, and very few in the North did not know the biting chill of early spring rain. It was practically still snow, for all the cold and misery that its stinging drops could bring. These were not the peaceful, relaxing showers of Mossflower, but full-blown storms that could strip warmth from the very bones if one were caught unawares. The brief period of respite and sunlight at the beginning of the season was over; spring was not to be the calm and bountiful season of new growth that it usually was. Not today, at least.

Raya had been the one to spot the clouds, which were heavier and more threatening than they usually were. They were coming on fast, and there wasn't much time to find appropriate cover. It had only been a few hours since they had escaped from Stillglade, but night was swiftly starting to settle over the land. The clouds would make travel in the dark even more treacherous, to say nothing of the calamitous weather about to befall them.

Castus paused in the middle of a small clearing, fitting for the way he was constantly trying to clear his mind. Raya had watched his friend while they ran, seeing the way his tail kept twitching, his ears kept flicking this way and that, the way he kept rubbing his paws on his tunic. He was nervous. Distracted. Constantly thinking, constantly moving, desperate to forget the incident back in Stillglade, incapacitating a wolf without even a real weapon. It was a story worthy of song, and yet Castus couldn't have looked less happy about the deed. Raya had kept the dagger from their escape from the slaver camp, but had kept it in his belt, even during their little scuffle with the wolves. In truth, his fear in that moment had made him forget about it, and he had doubted that he would have been able to take action like Castus anyway. But one dagger was little defense against a group of armed warriors that were surely on their trail.

All that aside, Raya was rather fearful of what Castus would do with a _real _weapon, such as the long knife he had kept from the wolf's body.

He had never seen Castus act the way he did now. The young squirrel was trying to act as though he was many seasons older than he really was, making decisions about where to sleep and how to hide, saying something ridiculous about-

"The trees."

"What?" Raya asked, snapped out of his reverie.

"Trees," Castus repeated. "We need to get into the trees."

The young mouse blinked several times, uncomprehending.

"Um... I'm sorry, what? I think you just said something about taking shelter in a tree, Castus."

"Well, why not?" the other male responded, turning around and spreading his arms in exasperation.

"Why not?" Raya repeated incredulously. "Why not? They're trees! I'm not built for trees, Castus! You see how I'm short and stocky? It means I'm supposed to stick to the ground! Mice are not made for scurrying up onto thin tree branches!"

"We're not just going to sleep on a branch in the middle of a rainstorm," Castus contended. "I'm going to build us a bit of a nest. Just take the creeper on these here maple trees... tie off some branches... just enough to keep most of the drops off us, really. But I need to start now."

"What, but..." Raya said, petulant to the end. Castus, who had been trying to start scaling a nearby trunk, paused and sighed deeply, turning back to face the young mouse. Could his friend never be cooperative? Their lives were in danger and he was bringing up his fear of heights!

"Raya... this is just like the river, and we got across that easily enough."

"That was a stroke of good fortune and you know it!" Raya answered. "Can't we find a cave, or... or some bundle of roots and bushes?"

"I'm not taking any chances," Castus said with a shake of his head. "They'll be able to track us easier on the ground, it's going to be just as wet down here, and I don't see any caves. Wolves are legendary trackers, Raya! You know the old stories. They can find a flea in a blizzard and all that!"

"Well I do think _some _of the old storytellers were exaggerating," Raya replied, but he knew that Castus was right. If he tried to dig a hole like some of his kind would suggest, he'd just be digging his own grave. They didn't know what kinds of capabilities these wolves had, but he did know that of all the old stories the thing the wolves did least was climb trees. Never once had tried something so intuitive, knowing the fear of them was generally enough to make all those in their way scamper out of their hiding places. After all, who actually thought that staying where they were was a good idea where wolves were concerned? Really, trying to get up and off the ground where they were leaving a fairly obvious trail was their best bet.

And yet Raya couldn't bring himself to think it was a good idea. He had broken his arm two seasons back falling out of a tree (that Castus had picked no less) and still remembered the fall as one of the scariest moments of his life. The gut-wrenching feeling that his insides were coming out, the sheer certainty that he was going to die, the mind-numbing terror that had gripped his mind...

By the time he had come back to the present, his friend was already halfway up the trunk of a nearby maple.

"Castus!" Raya called after him.

"Trust me!" was the answer. Raya huffed, turning away and crossing his arms.

"Oh, certainly, mate. No, don't listen to reason, just obey your instincts and care not about consequences. Trust me!"

Castus ignored his friend's complaints and began the climb. He knew he'd have to get Raya up here as well very soon, but what was paramount was getting them at least some cover. He began to tug and pull at the branches, trying to snap them off and create an appropriate bedding, and then noticed an odd weight on his waist. He reached down and felt the hilt of the long dagger he had used to kill the wolf. In his haste to run, he had held on to it, almost subconsciously. He glanced down at the cold metal, wondering why Raya hadn't said something. Perhaps he thought Castus had meant to take it.

He noticed the blood then, too.

He collapsed onto a branch and stared at the blade, the pattern of dry blood criss-crossing the cold metal. And he hadn't dropped it. Why had he taken it? It was a horrible thing. A blade. Made only to kill. And yet, in the midst of his rampage, he had _taken _it. It had been so natural, looking back. The easy, confident way he had slid it into his belt and taken off. The instinctive path his thoughts had taken. He had actually thought he would need this killing tool. He had told himself to take it, as if he was already getting ready to kill again. Like he was already getting used to it. It had been so natural, like it _belonged _at his side, in his paw, in that wolf's heart. He tried to clean off the dried blood, but the shaking in his paws made it difficult.

_Why?_

"Hey! What's the matter?" he heard Raya's voice call up to him, snapping him out of his reverie. He stirred himself, knowing there'd be time to think later. Right now he had something else to use this long blade for.

The dagger was more like some kind of long knife, with most of the weight concentrated on the blade. It was designed as a short, stabbing and hacking weapon, and helped him snap off some of the thinner branches as he began to twist and pull and lay out large branches. It was hard, strenuous work, but his paws were no stranger to labor.

It started to drizzle by the time he was finished. And now Raya, who had been sulking in the woods, had no choice except to climb up with him.

Castus stood next to him on the ground.

"See it?" he asked his friend, proud of his work. It wasn't a nest by any means; it couldn't even be called a shelter. It was instead an awkward tangle of branches and reaching leaves adjusted to keep out most of the rain and hopefully hide them from below. But it would do for tonight, and besides, he reasoned, the wolves would grow suspicious seeing something obviously designed by intelligent paws. This mess looked more like the crash site of some large bird.

"I see it, all right," Raya answered, not taking comfort in its ramshackle nature at all. It was dark and the rain was mere minutes away, but he didn't want to go up.

"We're gonna sleep in it."

"I know."

"... Well, aren't you going up?"

"In good time!"

"We have to go_ now,_ Raya."

"I don't want to climb."

"I'm not carrying you again!"

"I'll fall!"

"You won't."

"Huh, that's what you said about the river..."

"Raya, come _on. _We're just climbing a tree, we've already been through worse today."

Raya couldn't argue with that.

He sighed and looked up at the nearest branch, reaching up to it. He strained mightily, but could only brush his paws on it.

"Oh, for the love of..." Castus came over and wrapped his paws around his friend's middle, hoisting him up. Raya was not a bad climber, Castus remembered, but the incident where he had fallen two seasons ago was fresh on his mind. Raya had broken his arm, and remained very much aware of how close he had come to breaking his neck. Strange how sometimes Castus, having been more cautious, never really gained a fearful appreciation of something as simple and natural to him as tree-climbing. Then again he was made for it. Raya was slow and stumbling compared to any squirrel, but for a mouse, he was adequate, even in the dark.

Castus climbed alongside him, speaking encouragement, which seemed to only make Raya more anxious.

"Quit talking like I'm taking my first steps, Castus!" he snapped. "Just get up there and make sure I don't fall out the moment I get in!"

Castus, abashed, darted up to the shelter and waited. Raya clambered in soon after. There were a couple of tense moments when branches appeared to sway more than they should, or they found they couldn't get comfortable, but eventually they just settled into whatever nook and cranny their bodies found. It was cramped and miserable, but it was better than being on the ground. They both took a moment to catch their breath, listening to the rain really begin to come down. Though they had only been in it for a few minutes, their bare chests had been exposed to the frightful breezes that were starting to blow and the freezing rain drops. They felt like shivering. Unconsciously, they huddled closer, curled up as much as they dared, staring up into the mat of leaves and branches above them.

"I guess it'll have to do," Raya whispered.

"Yeah," Castus answered.

"Least it's keeping the rain out. Mostly," Raya said, watching a few drops sneak in and hit his tail. He curled it up against his chest, as did Castus with his. He was ever so thankful for a bushy tail at a time like this, even if it was somewhat damp. They both went quiet for several minutes, until a pressure that had been building up within the squirrel finally burst.

"He's really dead, isn't he?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. Raya looked over, and Castus was thankful it was so dark. Raya wouldn't be able to see the tears beginning to roll down his cheeks. There was a long, fateful pause.

"Yes," was Raya's answer. "He's dead, Castus."

The squirrel took a deep breath.

"I don't know why I did it."

"He was going to kill us, Castus."

"I mean I... I don't know why I... why _I did _it," Castus repeated. The tears were flowing as fast as the rain outside now. His eyes stung mightily. "I don't know why I was suddenly so ready. It almost came naturally. I picked up a weapon and I jammed it into his throat, knowing it would keep him quiet. I cut open his leg to keep him from running. And then I..."

There was only the sound of the driving rain for a little bit. It got colder, and they pressed up against one another, desperate for some kind of comfort, some way to stave off the cold.

"I killed him."

"You saved our lives."

"I couldn't save Warwick."

"And I couldn't save Birchtown. But that doesn't make it any less a heap of ash like Stillglade," Raya answered. Castus thought he heard an edge in his friend's voice, but passed it off.

"Stop worrying, Castus," Raya said, shifting to keep a branch from poking his side. "I never worry. It's why I'm lazy. It's why I'm a good-for-nothing and you're... well. You're closer to a hero now than I've ever seen you before."

Silence reigned again, for much longer this time. They listened to the storm, wondering if they would be alive the next morning and mindful that only a few inches of wood and leaves separated them from nature's fury. Unable to sleep, unable to stay awake, they could only huddle up and hope for their survival. Their collective warmth made it somewhat tolerable, at least.

"Castus?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you share your tail?"

"... Sure."

--

He was running. Running through the forest, through the rain. The droplets stung him, but he ran on, ever onward, rushing headlong. He had a vague sense that he was going west. The rain was driving, pushing, trying to stop him, freezing his limbs and halting movement. He pushed on through nonetheless, against the wind and cold, eyes set firmly ahead. The cold grasped at his limbs like living paws, and he shrugged them off, beating down the numbness if he had to. He had to keep moving. He was searching for something, but he didn't know what. All he knew was that he had to find it.

He had the idea that there were others near him, running the same way. He knew they were friends. Comrades. He was not alone in this storm, but all of them had to run alone.

The rain increased in its intensity, slicing down into his fur, and it became such that they were tiny razors cutting him, slicing his skin and shedding blood. And then they weren't razors. They were arrows falling, and the woods were no longer trees but bodies swirling all around him. It was a battle he was running through now, a sword clasped in his paw. Snarling, angry creatures beat at him with axe and spear and all manner of weaponry, and he fought back with great, angry strokes. Blood showered his face like the rain, but it was warm. Almost comfortable. He didn't know who was fighting or why they were trying to kill him, but he didn't feel anything as he cleaved away limbs and smashed in skulls with the hilt of his sword and his armored paw. It was like he was far away, watching from somewhere else.

Behind him, a badger roared in victory, shouting some foreign word. And then he crossed swords with a mouse in the battle, a mouse clad in armor and covered in blood, and they fought, weapons twirling, faces unreadable. It was a breath-taking feeling as they circled in the field of bodies. A beautiful dance of blurred movement. He had never felt more alive, more in tune with his senses. Their actions slowed down until it looked like they were fighting underwater, and then stopped entirely mid-swing.

The strange mouse opened his mouth to speak. The sound of bells came out.

--

Castus woke up with a terrible ache in his back. It was a wonder that he woke up at all. As his mind came back to wakefulness, he was aware that he hadn't been expecting to wake up alive that day. He had thought they'd be dragged from their perch by the wolves and eaten alive, or Balor the wolverine would hack the tree down and drag them back to slavery.

Instead, he was here in the shelter, worrying about something so trivial and homely as a cramp in his neck. It was quiet outside. The rain had stopped. Light was filtering through. The storm must have wasted itself and moved on. They had made it. They were _alive. _

Raya stirred next to him, or rather, around him. The mouse had tried to wrap first Castus' tail, then Castus himself around his body in place of a blanket. Castus' arm had gone under the mouse and fallen asleep as well. Castus tugged on it, and Raya snorted loudly as he felt his warm cover be taken away.

"Guh, no!" he said, unfurling himself. "My blanket... get off, Wendel..."

Castus smiled as he rolled his neck. Raya was dreaming of home and his younger brother.

"Raya," he said, and was surprised at his hoarse voice. He hadn't had water to drink in almost a day. He tugged on the mouse's ear rudely, and that got him up.

"Ughhn! Oh... ow! Castus! What's... what's going on?"

Castus answered with a smile.

"We're still here, that's what," he said, rubbing feeling back into his limbs. He felt the pins and needles and was glad for them. It proved he was still here, still breathing.

"Oh... oh," Raya replied, as the feeling descended on him too. "Wow, I... I didn't think we'd..."

"I know," Castus cut him off. "But we did. We made it to today."

He reached up and ripped open the shelter, showering them with dew and droplets the rain had left behind. He closed his eyes and felt the exultation of being alive in that small moment, when the light hit his face and the morning air collided with his fur.

The sun was warm. Deliciously warm. It was late morning, but they could be excused for oversleeping, having gotten very little last night.

Raya took a sensible glance downward, despite how dizzy it made him. There was no trace of wolves or slavers.

"We made it," he whispered. He sat there, enjoying life for a moment, and then decided he had had enough of life and wanted more ground. Testing his stiff limbs, he began the slow, awkward descent.

Once on the ground, they looked at one another in silence. Both of them were unwashed, tired, haggard, and hungry. But both of them didn't care. An unspoken affirmation of their brotherhood passed in that moment when they looked on one another and saw a reflection of their trials in the other. They had shared the terrors of this odyssey together, and knew they'd stick with each other to the end.

"I'm hungry," Raya announced. Castus couldn't agree more.

Breakfast was incredibly sparse, but it was better than nothing. Traveling along over the wet, cool ground, they found a small patch of rhubarbs, not quite mature but edible nonetheless. It was supplemented by the flowers of pansies and marigolds. Coming across a small stream yielded water cress that they consumed without a second thought. After that came more walking.

"We must be getting close to the border by now," Raya began to complain after midday.

"I don't have a map, Raya," Castus countered. "And anyway there's no way to tell. We'll get there when we get there. At least we're going south."

The traveling seemed to go on and on, until Raya believed he was getting a blister.

As afternoon came, they came upon a road. It was a large dirt pathway through the forest, leading southwest. Castus reasoned that it was the main road out of Greymarch, and if they traveled north along it they would reach the ruins of Birchtown. Both of them were decidedly against that idea. The road was not very well maintained, but it was there. The road was somewhat muddy, though not unable to be traveled upon. Even better, there were tracks. Fresh ones. Many of them, in fact. Wagon tracks and the paws of many other creatures had been through here.

"Must be... refugees from the other towns," Raya postulated.

"Then we'll just have to follow them," was Castus' reasoning.

Because the trail showed a great many creatures, they knew that they wouldn't be much farther ahead. Given how fresh the tracks were, they reasoned they couldn't be more than a couple hours behind. They hurried, ignoring the mud that sucked at their footpaws, jogging alongside one another in silence. There was nothing for either of them to say. They wanted to believe that this meant they were safe. But they could only know that this meant at least they wouldn't die alone. There were half-formed hopes at the backs of their minds, chief among them that perhaps, just perhaps, there'd be survivors from Birchtown in this group. But they knew about the slim to none chance that had. They didn't feel happy. This was just another goal in their long list of things to do before they could really be reunited with their families.

As time went on, they began to get less and less hopeful. There was nobeast on the road, no sounds, no smells. Nothing except more of a trail. Castus began to wonder if perhaps the wolves had caught up with them ahead. He began to grow anxious that perhaps they'd just find more bodies like they did in Stillglade, that the wolves would catch up to them in sight of safety. He pushed such thoughts down and continued on, and on.

Finally, they stopped. The trail had been lost in a mess of swirls and prints, as if the refugees had suddenly been forced into some kind of hurry. They first believed they might have gone off the road, but there were no signs anywhere.

They stood in the middle of the road, looking back and forth, walking over the path again and again. They didn't dare search the woods, fearful of some kind of trap or morbid fate awaiting them.

"I don't..." Raya spread his arms and let them flop back to his sides.

"Where are they?" he asked.

Castus only shook his head, turning this way and that.

"Maybe... maybe they're..."

"Ahoy there!"

Castus and Raya spun around at the sound of a deep voice hailing them. From out of the woods came a large otter bearing a spear, a shield slung over his back.

"Oh, seasons!" Raya gasped in relief. Castus had to agree. This was the first time in over a harrowing week that they had seen a friendly face.

Except, this otter's face wasn't particularly friendly. In fact he looked downright hostile, approaching with his spear held at the ready.

"Both of ye, don't move!" he hissed. "What're ya' doin', followin' our caravan, eh? Out in the woods alone, not even tunics on yer backs! Where've ya' come from?"

Castus and Raya looked between each other, and then down at their rather sorry states. Muddy, dirty, and with weapons in their belts. It wasn't the best way to present themselves to other scared runners.

"Oh, um..." Castus said, licking his lips. "Well, there's, uh... we were... we were on the run, and..."

"Let us by, you big bully!" Raya snapped, exasperated. "Can't you see we're in just as bad a shape as you? We're trying to get out of Greymarch, escape the war! Isn't that what you're doing?"

"Aye," the unknown otter muttered. "But that don't change the fact it's mighty suspicious you two came out of the woods like that. We've had trouble with... well, troublemakers. Beasts desperate for somethin' to eat, or drink, or... put on their backs," he said, raising an eyebrow at their shirtless states.

"We've let in others afore, two of 'em. Both ran after stealin' all they could carry. Huh! As if it'll 'elp. But anyway I can't just let you two in, see?"

"Joseph, what is this commotion?!" a husky voice behind the otter barked. "We're trying to hide, not let the whole dratted forest know we're here! What's..."

A rounded harvest mouse wearing long, patchy robes colored a bark brown came around the otter's considerable girth, staring at the mouse and the squirrel.

"Well?" he asked, when nobeast said anything. The otter scratched his nose with the end of his spear.

"Ahh... well, brother, these two were just passin' through. They claim they're refugees like us."

"Claim? _Everybeast _is a refugee in these woods, Joseph! Let them through! All of you, off the path, do you want to be _seen?"_

Abashed, the three came off the path and began following the mouse.

"Sorry, brother," the otter murmured. The mouse sighed and put his paw on the otter's arm.

"No worry, Joseph. You were only doing what you thought best. And you two, sorry for the disruption. We're more than a little afraid of what could happen if we make the wrong choices. Ah, my name is brother Rufus. From Coverham Abbey."

"Never heard of it," Raya replied in a manner Castus thought a little too abrupt. Rufus gestured emphatically in the air.

"Oh, well, it's... it's not the _biggest _Abbey in Greymarch, to be sure, but... but we're growing! Or at least... we were."

He sighed, and a great weight of sadness was obvious in his slumped shoulders.

"There were... only about two score of us there," he said quietly. "Our little stone building in the middle of the woods, helping those who came by, going out in the world to give help where we could. We lived a good life. A sheltered life. Until the... well, all this happened. There's only eight of us now. Our Abbot..." He shuddered and halted, leaning against a tree and putting his head in his paws. Joseph put a paw around his shoulders.

"S'all right, brother," he cooed, and Rufus continued on, shaking his head.

"Well, we don't have time to dwell on that right now. We should get back to camp before we speak."

"Brother Rufus," Castus said quickly. "I'm Castus and that's Raya. Forgive me for being blunt, but we're from further north, a placed alled Birchshire, brother. We were wondering if... if you had..."

Rufus turned back for a moment, staring at Castus and Raya thoughtfully. He put a paw on each of their shoulders.

"Children," he said, though he was hardly middle-aged himself. "I cannot say what has happened to your home. The last we heard from Birchshire was that wolves had attacked it. Nothing else. No beasts have come out of that area that we know of, even the ones with us are not townsbeasts... we've been too busy running."

"But... there must be others with you!" Raya insisted.

"Oh, yes, many others," Rufus said with a sad nod. "At least three score, the last time I checked. Nearing a hundred by now."

"Seventy three," Joseph corrected.

"But there must be _some _from the shire!" Castus persisted. Rufus shook his head sadly.

"I'm sorry, boys. There's been nothing from the north. Only those who lived in the deep woods escaped the fate of the towns. No more news has come ever since the war began, not even from Icemoat Keep. Nothing but the howls."


	12. Chapter 12

The refugees hadn't reacted much to the arrival of Castus and Raya. They were only two more in a growing list of desperate, scared creatures. It was a sad mixture of youngsters and some elders, with a smattering of able-bodied beasts, mostly female. The camp itself was ramshackle and disorganized, with no real shelters. Some beasts were getting what sleep they could under their wagons, some had used their blankets or spare tunics to create makeshift tents. There were no fires, and everybeast looked wet and dejected, being forced to eat whatever they could pick from the trail. There were a terrible few weapons among them, and only Joseph and a few others even looked ready and willing to fight. They barely even glanced up at the mouse and squirrel, not even surprised by their lack of clothing and the weapons they carried. They were greeted the most heartily by the Abbeybeasts, who were doing their best to keep spirits up and the mob in line. Rufus provided them with clothing from the spares in a wagon.

"Is that a bloodstain? I think it is," Raya muttered when he put a plain red tunic on.

"Thank you for taking us in," Castus said over his friend's complaints, stringing up the front of his bark brown jerkin. "We weren't expecting much."

"Good," Rufus said, dropping down next to them and pulling out a radish to gnaw on. "We hardly have anything to give. Joseph, sit down. You've been as vigilant as anybeast else here."

Joseph declined with a shake of his head.

"Naw, brother. I'll remain standin'. Never know what could come out of the woods anymore."

"Brother," Castus asked as he began peeling a rather old onion, "please... forgive me for asking, but my friend and I have been in the woods for over a week. We have no idea what's been happening. Isn't there anything, anything at all, that you can tell us?"

Rufus stopped mid-bite, looking thoughtful.

"That these woods don't belong to us anymore," he finally settled on.

Raya gaped at him.

"What... that's it? What, is the war already over?"

"You haven't seen armies coming through Greymarch recently, have you? Woodlander armies at least." Rufus continued chewing on his radish.

Joseph shook his head and snorted.

"If they 'aven't come by now, they aren't comin'. The wolves are 'ere for the whole forest. They've been slaughterin' everything, or so I've 'eard. Vermin and woodlander alike."

Castus and Raya could believe it. The utter, complete devastation they had seen at Stillglade was proof of the wolves' total lack of mercy.

"But you were an Abbey," Castus pressed. "Are they really that bloodthirsty?"

"Bloodlust does not care what blood is being shed," Rufus said quietly, and there was a haunted look in his eyes. "They showed no mercy to us, child. I will remember the day they came for the rest of my life. We were taking in the first waves of refugees from the far North, where life was hard and stories of wolves abounded. At first we could not believe how fully destructive this conflict was. We believed that, while it was a war, it would be a war like any other, and would pass by soon enough when our armies took control. But still more came. More tales of horror and death. And on their heels came the beasts that still haunt my nightmares..."

He shook his head, eyes closing as he lost himself in memory.

"I've only been a member of Coverham's order for three seasons. Yet already I've seen its end. There must have been a hundred of the creatures in front of our humble Abbey, all dressed for battle like we were some fortress to conquer. Their leader came forward and demanded an audience with the Abbot. Father Brisan was... he was so calm. So brave, I... I shan't think I will see a more composed, stalwart creature for many seasons. He bid us remain inside and went out alone, all alone. I and a few others couldn't help but follow, we simply couldn't let him go out without us. We were close enough to hear everything. The wolf said that they would be taking the valuables, the food, and then they would burn the building down. He said... he said we could stay inside while they destroyed it, and save them the trouble of..."

"Of hunting us," Joseph growled. "The monster acted like some high falootin' lord, talkin' fancy in woodlander tongue, pretendin' he'd be givin' us a chance. A lie. All a lie."

"Father Brisan said the Abbey was a place of peace, healing, and shelter," Rufus continued, his voice hushed. "He told the wolf that they could take some food and move on, but they could not allow them entrance to the Abbey so armed. The wolf said he had not asked to be let in, and told Brisan to get out of the way. Called him nothing but a weak little bird, and that he'd... he'd clip his wings and slit his throat, and do the same to the rest of his flock. And Brisan just... just stared at him. Stared at him long and hard, as if he was trying to persuade him of something simply by looking at him. He was only a mouse... an elderly, kind creature. And then he said... I will never forget his words... he said 'No matter how loud you howl, wolf, some creatures will never be afraid. I am the Father Abbot, and I say that no evil intent, no acts of violence will penetrate this place so long as I am alive.'"

Rufus went silent for a long moment, staring off into space. The others could tell he was reliving the day more vividly than he could ever explain. They waited patiently for him to continue.

"The wolf," he said, and his voice was a whisper, "merely glared back at Brisan. And then he growled. And then he simply... took out a knife..."

His voice began to break.

"And it sank into Brisan's chest." He sniffed loudly and put a paw over his eyes. "I'm sorry, boys... I shouldn't be relating such horrid things..."

"It's... it's all right," Castus offered, but his voice was weak and wispy, and he didn't think he sounded very reassuring at all. He was still seeing the dead eyes of little Darcy. "We've... seen things for ourselves."

"Aye," said Raya, sounding slightly less sympathetic and more angry as he remembered poor, pathetic Warwick. "Whatever these wolves get, they deserve."

"Ain't that the truth. The Abbey became a murdering ground for those foul beasts," Joseph spat when he saw Rufus could no longer continue. "We had no walls, an' few weapons. Peaceful creatures who never harmed anythin' in their lives, gutted like fish! I and Rufus got as many out as we could... barely a dozen including the Abbeybeasts and those we were sheltering."

He stamped his spear on the ground. "Ach, damn 'em ta' Hellgates, pardon my language, brother! They were relentless, hunted us all through the night! Had I not picked up this spear, I and Rufus and the rest would not be 'ere today! They showed mercy ta' nobeast! Aye, I put aside ma' vows, but I'm glad for the creatures this weapon sent ta'-"

"Joseph!" Rufus said, and his voice was suddenly strong again. Though his eyes were red and his shoulders shaking, he had regained his composure enough to speak. "That is enough, Joseph. You handled yourself admirably, and many of us owe you our lives. Do not let your anger sour the fact that we have found two more living creatures to shelter in these dark days."

The otter breathed in deeply, looking severely reprimanded.

"You're right. I'm sorry, brother," he said quickly, picking up his spear and turning away. "I best get back ta' patrollin'."

Rufus watched him go with a sad smile on his face.

"He came to us as a warrior," he related quietly. "His tribe lives somewhere to the east, along one of the great rivers. We don't know where they are now. Poor Joseph was always a loner, always more war-like than his brethren. He has told me little, but I suspect he regrets leaving them like he did. He pledged to put up his weapons when he joined us, believing that his fighting talents were not needed in this time of peace, that he would not have to live with death. War changes everything."

There was silence as they all digested the ominous thought. Castus knew exactly what Rufus was speaking about. War had already changed him. The killing of the wolf would always be on his conscience. It was his fault they were being hunted now... his fault that the wolves may come here.

_No, no,_ his mind said. _The rainstorm put them off your trail. They'd never go to all the trouble to hunt down two young ones. Don't think about that now._

"Well!" Rufus said, standing. "We will be moving soon, it is always safer to be on the move... you are welcome to share what little shelter we have until then."

The two got themselves some water from a wagon, which they stood around and spoke quietly to each other.

"Raya... if the wolves come here..." Castus began, sounding frightened and guilty.

"Then it'll be easier on us. There's only six of them, and near a hundred of us," Raya replied, so fast it seemed he had thought about his answer a while ago.

"But only a few of them can actually fight! Look at them!" Castus worried, waving his arm at the refugees, who were all either talking in hushed voices or sitting by themselves, probably grieving lost friends and loved ones, and homes where they had none of the former.

Raya shrugged apathetically, feeling far too tired and under stress to answer every complaint Castus could have.

"Look, if and when the wolves do come, we do what they're going to do... run for our lives. It's more distractions for them."

"What... how could you say that? They're-!"

"Beasts we only just met, and probably wouldn't risk their lives for us, eh?" Raya muttered, sounding dark and yet somewhat sage at the same time, making his advice very confusing to the young squirrel. "Trust me, Castus. I dealt with all the bullies _you _didn't stand up to. I know what a beast will do when he's pushed."

Castus leaned against the wagon and sighed explosively.

"If I... I hadn't killed him, then they wouldn't be hunting us-"

"Shhh, stop it!" Raya hissed, suddenly seething. "If they know what you did, then they'd put us out on our bottoms! You think they're going to let us stay knowing we have wolves on our trail?"

"But then what do we do?"

"Hope our run of good luck stays with us a little while longer."

--

The next three days were a blur of rushed, quiet movement, traveling as fast as they could and often in the dark. There was little time for talk, and what few guards there were discouraged any of it. An air of rushed, fearful tension followed the group everywhere, and what was worse they never once encountered another living creature. They followed the path south, making all speed for the borders of Greymarch. There was little time to get to know each other, and any voices were hushed and muttered, with all energy saved for walking. Many times they heard the howls of wolves, and then all noises would be again hushed for a time. More than once they could see large crows and other carrion birds making flights overhead, moving with a purpose. Fearful that these flying scourges were in league with the wolves, Joseph had standing orders that the moment one was spotted, everybeast was to lie flat and still on the ground, off the path, and not make a sound until the threat had passed.

Castus and Raya kept mostly to themselves during this time, and the refugees were too scared to talk. Every moment they were terrified that the wolves and slavers they were certain were on their trail would leap out of the woods... yet none came. Castus began to wonder which was worse; being attacked, or waiting for the attack to come, yet without the constant threat, they were able to get to know at least some of the creatures in their column. They stuck the most to Joseph and Rufus, having met them first, and quickly learned the both of them had vowed, along with the rest of the abbey remnant, to keep the name of Coverham alive, and hopefully re-establish it elsewhere.

Though they wished them the best of luck, they knew their chances were slim.

It was morning on the fourth day. Castus was woken up by a shove from Raya.

"Get up!" he heard the mouse hiss, and opened his eyes to see the thin covering of the blanket he called a tent.

"Jus' five more minutes, Raya," he muttered. "We marched for _miles_ yesterday..."

"Get _up! _And keep your voice down!"

Castus sat up.

"What is it?"

"Come on!"

Raya led him quickly towards the path, keeping low and bidding Castus to do the same. Castus noticed that the others in the column were all just as shifty and anxious as the mouse, many of them hiding or looking ready to run.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Terrible luck, that's what," Raya snapped as he stopped Castus at the edge of the woods. They looked up the path, and Castus finally saw the problem.

The shadow of Balor was cast over the pathway, shrouding the figure of Gavril the weasel half a score of lackeys from Kaltag's slaver group. All of them were armed and foul-looking. The two youngsters ducked down into the brush immediately.

"How'd they find us?!" Castus asked in a near panic.

"Shush!" Raya said, pointing to the small group that had confronted them, which included Joseph and Rufus. "Let me hear!"

"-only askin' you one more time!" Gavril snarled at Rufus. "We're gonna go in there and search your camp, and I don't care if we have to cut you open to do it!"

Rufus stood solidly, paws in his sleeves so the weasel couldn't see them shaking. He was trying to put up a brave front for the other abbeybeasts who had accompanied him, but he wasn't doing a good job. Even Joseph was nervous, he could tell. The wolverine alone could rip them to shreds without even thinking. But he couldn't just let these vermin wander into the camp and take what they liked!

"I am telling you sir, we have nothing of value," he pleaded in a soft voice that Castus and Raya could barely hear. "Surely with the way things are going we can merely part in peace?"

"Peace? Peace?!" Gavril shouted, his voice rising as he towered over the mouse. "I haven't had a wink of sleep for a week, you mindless woodlander! I've been trudgin' over hill an' dale to get what I was told to find, and I'll search every last portal an' pocket until I get it! The only reason I'm not having Balor here smash you up good is because I ain't in no mood for a fight! Now I'm askin' you! Have you seen a mouse and a squirrel go by here? The bushtail's got a sort of orangey pelt and the mouse is a real loud-mouth."

"We've seen many beasts go by us," Rufus maintained calmly, trying to remember the serene look of his old Abbot. "You can't expect us to remember them all."

"You're wearin' Abbey garb, mousie," Gavril pointed out. "You're bound by oath to take the needy in! If they're in your camp, give 'em to me and this will all be solved peaceful like. Refuse me one more time, mouse! I dare you!"

Rufus glanced at the motley crew before him. All of them looked to be in a foul temper, especially the wolverine. What was the life of two young woodlanders worth? Could he really sacrifice them to save the rest? If he refused, they would all die. But how could he be a creature of Coverham Abbey if he was going to stoop to that level of cowardly bargaining? He could save them all with the death of only two...

He closed his eyes and enclosed himself in a veil of deep thought.

Castus' mind was likewise racing. He curled up and put his paws on his head, squeezing his eyes shut. Suddenly he had a headache. He had done this. He had led them here. That wolverine was going to tear them apart and spit out the bones, and it'd be all his fault! He and Raya had led them here, and now more creatures were going to die, were going to get left behind. First the hedgehog in the camp, then the slaves, then Warwick... how was he supposed to go on, knowing he could have done more or acted differently to help?

Gavril stood in the middle of the path, astounded at Rufus' stubbornness. Kaltag had ordered him to track the escaped slaves down, and not come back until he found them. If he returned empty-pawed, his livelihood... nay, his head was on the line! The fox had looked furious at their escape. He could not risk testing the mercy of Kaltag, not after what he had done to Trosk.

Very slowly, he drew his cutlass and held it in front of him.

"Let... me... pass," he growled. Balor added to the threat by rolling his shoulders and shifting his weight, a deep, rumbling growl that sounded of falling rock emanating from his chest. Joseph's grip on his spear tightened, and the other abbeybeasts took a few fearful steps back. Rufus, however, remained immobile.

His eyes opened.

"No matter how much you how howl," he said slowly, "I will not be afraid of you."

Gavril stared daggers at the mouse, and held his weapon aloft. Castus' heart clenched. They were going to die, he realized. _They're going to die, they're all going to get massacred and it's our fault, all our fault, my fault, I led them here, I can't let this happen! _

"If you will not stand aside... I'll _part _you myself!"

Out of nowhere, an arrow flew from the forest and buried its tip in Balor's eye. The wolverine staggered to the side of the path with a shocked grunt and fell to one knee, finally letting out a bellow of agony.

"What in Hellgates?!" Gavril roared, turning to the forest. What he saw and heard made his blood run cold.

Wolves. Snarling, vicious, howling wolves, brandishing swords and shields and all manner of assorted cruel cutlery, charging out of the woods, appearing so quickly it was like a door had opened in space, and out had poured death. There were at least two dozen of them. Castus and Raya were momentarily frozen as they saw the wolf that had led the scouting party into Stillglade charging near the head of the attack.

Rufus and Joseph wasted no time, rushing off the path with the abbeybeasts, arrows flying around them. Ahead rushed Castus and Raya, shouting warnings to the refugees.

The vermin on the path had been caught entirely by surprise. Seeing them armed and standing their ground, several wolves charged towards them, bringing down axes and spears into skulls. Those that did fight back knew they were doomed, and only fought from the panic that reached deep into instinctive response. Gavril didn't even try to rally them as wolves swarmed the small party, literally leaping into the attack in their bloodlust. He could see the fear shining terribly bright in their eyes, that bowel-dropping, mind-numbing fear that only came with the certain knowledge of death. This was where they would meet their end, and the only thing left was to swing their swords and hope for a miracle.

He hacked with his cutlass at the first wolf to approach him, whacking at the large shield the wolf bore and leaping away from the wide swings of its axe. The wolf was a large, feral looking beast, dressed in furs and wearing a perpetual snarl on his face, which was further mangled by a ragged scar that looked frighteningly like a bite mark. The combat was a furious swirl of screams and growls, barks and squeals. Vermin fell like wheat before the onslaught, dragged down and torn to pieces while they were still living. It was not battle so much as outright slaughter.

Balor rose up behind him to begin his attack, roaring his defiance and falling upon the wolves with a vengeance. He didn't care about death. Rage and mindless animalistic bloodlust was clear in his remaining eye. A more zealous wolf charged straight in and thrust a spear at the beast's belly, but Balor caught it easily through his paw and turned it aside, ignoring the skewer now sticking from his paw. Ignoring other hurled spears and arrows thudding into his thick hide, Balor snatched up the wolf and brought him up level to his snout. The wolf shouted his defiance, but Balor ignored it all as he clamped his jaws down and bit the wolf's head clean from his body with a stomach churning snap of his formidable teeth. He hurled the corpse into another wolf and began laying about with his bare paws, slashing and hacking with his cleaving claws.

Gavril had always been a skilled swordbeast, but this wolf's attack was unstoppable. His opponent bulled forward and turned aside the cutlass with his large shield, bringing the axe through an upward swing. In that instant he felt a scorch of what he thought was panic, knowing he was in trouble. Then he realized the hot feeling was a huge gash across his chest. He collapsed backwards and fell flat on his back, staring in shocked silence as the wolf smashed his cutlass away with a bash of his shield, and brought the axe down on Gavril's skull, ending his life in an instant.

Balor was the last slaver standing, though the wolves were smart enough to avoid the wolverine's clumsy, swinging paws. Though he was dangerous, he was nothing more than a mindless beast, and the wolves would dance in and out, cutting and jabbing and then leaping away before Balor could retaliate. The wolves held no fear of such a creature as long as they had each other to depend on, and it was obvious this beast was not right in his mind, and therefore not fighting to his full effectiveness.

Guthrin stood up from his latest kill, a cowardly squealing rat that had not even deserved to hold a sword. He had silenced the fool by biting out his throat, relishing the blood on his tongue, though still not satisfied that it was not the ones who had slain young Cadogan. The budding warrior had deserved a better death than that. He turned to the wolverine, and bowed low as another wolf entered the picture.

Taller and leaner than most of the others, he carried himself with an air of command and wore a long red sash over his plain clothing. He walked as though he simply expected others to bow down to him, and everybeast knew why. He was the right hand of death, the stalker in the shadows. Expert archer who had taken the wolverine's eye at the onset of the attack, one of the elite of the invasion force. This creature would be his to finish off. Shadowy blue eyes considered the stumbling wolverine with a cool, calculating gaze. The others in the pack watched expectantly. The blue-eyed archer held out his paw for a spear from his cohort, and watched calmly as Balor sent an unwary wolf flying into a tree with an audible snap of bone. Waiting until Balor turned, he took two hops forward and hurled the spear into the back of the wolverine's knee. Balor grunted and fell to all fours, turning about to face the new attacker. The wolf grabbed up another spear and hurled it towards Balor's neck. The wolverine took it without even flinching, and began lurching towards him, gurgling and choking on his own blood. The wolf then motioned for a bow and arrow, and was given it without hesitation. The pack spread out and watched from a safe distance as the large wolf nocked back a single arrow, and pierced Balor's eye. The wolverine fell with a pitiful grunt, and lay growling on the path, still trying to claw his way towards the wolf. Determined, yes, but not worth keeping alive.

He picked out a greataxe from one of his comrades, descended on Balor, and planted the axe in his head, not even shutting his eyes against the spurt of blood and bone that came of it. The great creature breathed his last, his body almost seeming to deflate as the rage and strength went out of it. Guthrin cheered along with the others as the blue-eyed wolf held his bloody weapon aloft.

"I am Corragh, the Woodshadow!" he bellowed. "And I claim this kill! Brothers! More prey awaits! Tonight we feast on the weak, and avenge our fallen!"

They charged into the woods as one, howling for blood.

-------------

There had been little time to prepare, so many beasts had simply taken to the woods, panicking despite the pleas from Rufus to remain together. The wolves would hunt them down, one by one, and feast on their remains. Castus and Raya had gathered together with Joseph and Rufus and the abbeybeasts, fleeing for their lives with about a score of other refugees. It was a grim situation. In a matter of moments hysteria had overtaken them all, and they had no idea where the rest were, though they could hear the occasional scream or victorious bark, only further spurring their fear. And they could hear the sounds of pursuit behind them. Joseph ran near the back, bravely picking up stragglers and making them run where he could in spite of the danger.

Castus considered taking to the trees, but he couldn't abandon Raya. His mind was a whirl of fear and other terrible possibilities. Only blind terror spurred him on and made him throw his legs out in front of him, one after the other. There was going to be no element of surprise in his favor here; if he was caught, he was going to die. Raya was concentrating only on running, sprinting alongside the squirrel, huffing and puffing as he pumped his arms and legs for all they were worth, noticing they were not in the cluster they had started out in. Despite Rufus and Joseph's best efforts, the refugees were slowly beginning to thin out and spread apart from each other.

"Everybeast hold up for a bit!" Joseph shouted, though it took a few tries to get them to even slow down.

"Listen!" he barked when they were all together. He could see the panic in their eyes and spoke quickly.

"Everybeast needs to take the ones who can't run too fast an' carry 'em. Hmm? We're movin' too slow!"

"The wolves will be on us any second!" Raya shouted. Joseph picked up his spear and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Then I'll stay 'ere. Right? You go on!"

"No!" Rufus barked. "You can't!"

"They'll go after any big threats," Joseph countered. "If I stay an'-"

A series of barks interrupted him.

"No time!" Joseph shouted. "Go on! Go! All of ye!"

There was only a moment's hesitation, with Rufus remaining behind and trying to say something. He had to let Joseph know something, but he couldn't get the words to come out. The two friends stared at each other in silence, until wolves were visible through the trees. Castus was at Rufus' side at an instant, snatching the mouse's habit and dragging him clumsily along.

Joseph turned to face his fate. Brandishing his spear, the otter waited until the first roaring wolf came forward to challenge him, then launched himself forward with a roar of his own.

----------

The fear that Castus and Raya felt as they ran was incalculable. There was no brave final stand for them or any of the others. They knew that Joseph would not be able to stand against the wolves for very long, and they had to make the most of the time given to them. Rufus hurried with the remnants of his abbey and the refugees he had sworn to protect. In a instant, his vow had been rendered null and void. He had failed, and failed miserably. So many were going to die tonight, after he had promised to shuttle them to safety.

And Joseph...

"Brother, you're slowing down!" one of his fellow abbeybeasts, a young dormouse novice barked as he grabbed the mouse's arm and pulled him forward. He had almost gone all the way to the back of the column.

"So much death..." Rufus whispered as he stumbled along, looking lost and confused.

Nearby Castus and Raya rushed at the side of the column, the squirrel clutching an elderly mole on one side, and the mouse helping him on the other. Castus looked behind and saw Rufus stumbling, and the dormouse helping him running out of breath.

"Take him!" he ordered Raya and left the mole's side to run back to the other two, grabbing Rufus' other arm and half-dragging, half-carrying him through the woods.

"We're going to make it," he gasped to the others.

"Did you see what happened to Joseph?" the dormouse asked. Castus only shook his head.

"I should have said something," Rufus said, tears beginning to well up in his eyes. "I should be leading them out... I need to..."

"Nobeast will blame you for running for your life, brother!" Castus answered. "Once we get out of the woods we'll-"

"Look out!" the dormouse gasped. Castus looked to his right just in time to see a huge grey blur slam into him. He felt strong, muscular arms wrap around his body and pin his arms to his sides, and then everything became a blur as he and his attacker rolled endlessly down a nearby hill, crushing over bushes and hurtling over rocks. The world was a twisting, blurred mess of green and brown and grey. Castus felt the wolf that grabbed him lose his grip and fall away, letting him tumble the short way down alone. He fell flat on his chest and felt the wind get knocked from his lungs, but his mind wouldn't let him rest.

_Get up get up you're going to die it's a wolf get UP!_

He grabbed a nearby fallen branch and swung it at random, feeling it connect with something hard and resisting. There was a loud yelp, and he swung the branch again, but this time was not so lucky. It collided with the shaft of wood, and was easily knocked aside. Castus felt a large, heavy fist smash into his snout, and he fell backwards gasping for breath. When his vision finally cleared, he saw a wolf armed with a mace towering over him, paused in the fraction of a second between raising his weapon and bringing it crashing down. There was nobeast coming to save him, nobeast coming to help him.

Castus screamed.


	13. Chapter 13

Castus screamed.

It wasn't a very modest scream, either. It was high-pitched, full of stark terror and flat-out denial of what was about to happen: a wolf was about to crack his skull open with a mace. Ice crackled through Castus' blood, freezing all movement save for the vain protection he threw over his head with his arms. This was it, he thought. He was going to die. Everything in his life had led to this exact moment, a moment in the forest where all his bravery and agility counted for nothing, where all his hopes and dreams would soon lie as splattered and broken as his brains. Nothing he had done up to now mattered. Death was going to take him kicking and screaming. He closed his eyes tight in a futile attempt to escape what was happening.

It wasn't fair.

Whether Fate agreed, or the wolf had simply been too slow in delivering the killing blow, Castus would not know. He only knew that he was still alive a moment after he had accepted he would be dead. The sounds of a loud grunt and somebeast shouting obscenities were right next to his head. His eyes flew open to an astonishing sight. Raya had the wolf tackled to the ground and was trying to simultaneously wrestle the mace away from his iron grip while pounding on any exposed spot he could find with anything he could pick up. A rock, a sharp twig, even leaves and dirt were pummeled into the wolf's fur and face as the mouse bellowed words that would make a sailor blush. Castus rolled away and drew his knife, though this time his paws were shaking. He didn't know what to do with it! It wasn't like in Stillglade, when he had time to prepare, to think... no, he hadn't thought there either.

The wolf quickly got over his shock and landed a solid rake to the side of Raya's head with his claws. The mouse cried out and rolled to the side, clutching the wounds as blood flowed freely. The wolf began to get to his footpaws, growling menacingly.

Castus glanced down at the knife in his paws, hypnotized by the weapon. The cold touch of the iron on his skin seemed to spark something inside of him, something very familiar, felt during those final moments in Stillglade. This was no different. He _did _know what he had to do. It was as if the clean, dangerous shine of the blade was speaking to him, guiding him, persuading him. He _knew _what this was supposed to do, where the killing edge was supposed to go. Stab him. Stab, stab, until the blood came out and the body stopped twitching. Just like in Stillglade. No thinking! Jump! Attack! Your friend's in danger and so are you! There's no _time!_

_KILL HIM!_

The young squirrel's face twisted into a snarl as he leaped onto the wolf's exposed back, slashing and hacking at the beast's chest over his shoulder, trying to find the same spot that he had killed the wolf in Stillglade with. It was somewhere in the middle of the ribcage. That was where he had gotten access to the heart and the wolf's struggles had been stilled. But this time his blade was turned away by a thick coat of furs and several scales of armor found underneath. Clearly this wolf had come prepared for a fight, and simple killer instinct would not save him here.

Snarling, the wolf snatched Castus' stabbing paw by the wrist, and flung him over his shoulder. Castus landed with a dull thud onto the leaf-carpeted ground, groaning from the impact, trying to draw breath back into his lungs after it had exploded out of him. He even _felt _flattened. The knife was easily and painfully twisted from his grasp. Raya had staggered to his footpaws by this time, face streaming blood, and stumbled about in a daze. He was easily floored again by a kick from the wolf, who snarled something in a guttural, foreign tongue before turning back to Castus.

The squirrel felt little fear this time, not trying to fight so much as he was compelled to simply _do _something. He rolled onto all fours and saw the shadow of the wolf fall over him. His paws sifted through the grass and happened to come across a length of old, broken branch, perhaps snapped off in the roll down the hill. He lunged up and tried to hit the wolf square in the nose, but he simply knocked it aside with his mace with nothing more than a flick of his wrist. He casually stabbed out with the knife as if he was sheathing it rather than trying to disembowel somebeast. Castus tried to leap back, but not far enough.

Pain exploded in his side. Something had invaded his torso with a searing, awful feeling, a gut-wrenching sensation of his skin and muscle being parted. He collapsed to the ground again, grabbing at the knife handle that was jutting from him. It hadn't gone very deep, but it was deep enough for Castus. The squirrel fumbled for the handle and clumsily tugged at it, whimpering pitiably. He had no idea it would have _hurt_ so much for this to happen. Steaming hot tears welled up at the corners of his eyes.

The wolf showed no mercy. He raised the mace again, eager to finish this stubborn prey off and move on to better things. Castus could see him. The wolf was standing, raising his weapon again... and then, suddenly, his arm fell off.

Castus only had time to blink before the wolf's head followed suit, and then the body came tumbling down, squirting blood onto the carpet of vegetation. It was strikingly red against the ground. For a moment, time stood still, and Castus saw the wolf's head, limp and frozen in a half-snarl. It was a queer expression, lifeless and yet a poor reflection of his final living moments just the same. The eyes were so empty, so dull and without the rage and confidence that had filled them not moments before. A few seconds ago, the wolf had been ready to stave in Castus' skull, and then he was dead. Nothing like in the stories, where villains often had some kind of monologue or passing gesture. This was death, plain and simple. In the wolf's place, a tall river otter stood, alive and well and ready for more battle. Castus at first thought it was Joseph, but this one was older, looking middle-aged and wearing different clothing, wielding a bloodied longsword with confidence and authority. Through the haze of agony bubbling up with the blood from the knife wound, Castus watched as the otter turned calmly to face another wolf who had witnessed the slaying, and was charging to the attack, holding a spear in both paws and roaring aloud to alert his fellows.

Raya had finally regained his breath from the blow to his stomach, standing up and still clutching the claw marks on the side of his face. The otter took three steps forward, snatched the front of Raya's tunic, and threw him back to where Castus lay before confronting his foe. Castus, in a daze, finally managed to yank the knife out of his side with a pitiful yelp, stars dancing in front of his eyes and tears streaming down his cheeks. In an agonized stupor, the two of them bore witness to the otter's skill.

The wolf charged forward and thrust with his spear. The otter sidestepped it and pulled his sword up to block a horizontal swing of the shaft, then placed his gloved paw on the blade of his sword, shoving the edge of the spear down with his weapon. In the same instant he stepped into the wolf's attack and _smashed_ the crosstree of his sword hilt into the side of the wolf's head. There was a horrid crunch, and the wolf crumpled to the ground, collapsing on his back, his face dented and mangled. Before he could rise, he found the otter's sword buried in his stomach. There was no time to pull it out, as another wolf was already charging forward with a long sword. The otter effortlessly kicked up the fallen spear and lashed out, feinting and thrusting. The combatants danced back and forth, weapons flashing in a swirling circle, jabbing and seeking. Half the attacks weren't even real; they were merely testing one another. Only a single mistake had to be made, and then the fight would swing to one, inevitable conclusion. At last the wolf managed to use his blade to turn aside the spear and trap it under his sword arm, grasping the shaft with his free paw and trying to tug the weapon away. The otter simply released the spear and reached down to his belt, drawing up a throwing dagger. With a deft flick of his wrist, the weapon was buried into the wolf's shoulder, making him twist away and lose his grip. The otter withdrew the spear, and then the tip surged forward again into the wolf's neck, and the mystery warrior bore his enemy to the ground, glancing up to find another foe charging forward, emblazoned with all kinds of war-like tattoos.

With a bloody yank, the spear was free, the otter backpedaling quickly. He grasped the butt of the shaft and spun the spear in a wide circle, whipping the tip into the wolf's face. His head snapped to the side, his body following as he fell to the ground, dazed. The otter adjusted the spear in his paw, took two hops forward, and hurled it into yet another wolf who had appeared not five yards away. The wolf saw it coming and simply leaned to the side, sneering contemptuously as the spear passed harmlessly by, and rushed to the attack, wielding a billhook over his head like an axe.

The otter ran forward and pulled his sword from the first wolf's body, and they charged one another. But the otter, at the last moment, dropped down and rolled to the side, cutting the wolf's legs out from under him. The sword whipped around and crushed the wolf's skull just as the body hit the ground.

The tattooed wolf now began to recover from the blow with the spear, hefting his axe. But before he could even get to his footpaws, a new combatant had arrived. A young male shrew, armed to the teeth with dagger and saber, burst from the brush and leapt on the wolf. Wordlessly, he brought his blade down on the back of the wolf's neck, ending his life quickly and silently.

Wiping his sword clean on a nearby bush, the otter sheathed his weapon and hurried over to Castus and Raya.

"Up now, boys," he said in a deep baritone that radiated confidence, yet did not lack sensitivity to their plight.

"We've got to go… these wolves are relentless. Gander, get over here!" Surveying the carnage, the shrew tightened the bandanna around his head and jumped to action, pulling a length of bandages from the sack he carried.

"Who in blazes are you?!" Raya cried, but the otter shushed him by clamping a paw over his mouth.

"The wolves are distracted with more prey. Keep quiet or others will find us!" he hissed, and rolled Castus over onto his back to get a good look at his injury. Gently he pried the squirrel's paws away.

"It's not as bad as it looks, though I know it hurts," he diagnosed quickly. "I've not seen many beasts able to yank out a weapon like that."

"I w-w-wanted it out," Castus said through chattering teeth. For some reason he had a headache on top of everything else, and his chatters were like jackhammers pounding in his ears.

"Indeed," the otter said with a shadow of a smile, and hastily bandaged up the injury. It would only slow the bleeding, but they needed movement right now. Gander, ignoring Raya's protests, wrapped a bandage around his face and yanked tight on it.

"Ow!" Raya squeaked, batting at the shrew's paws. "Gerroff me you idiot! That hurt!"

"Quiet!" the otter snapped again, bundling Castus up in his burly arms as easily as he would a babe.

"Come now. Gander, take that one by the arm. We're leaving."

The run through the woods after the attack was an unpleasant affair, but one in which Castus found himself figuring out just how capable their savior was. His strides were long and steady, even with the added weight of Castus on top of his gear. He was dressed like a soldier, with a belt and bandolier holding knives and daggers. Off his side hung a holder for a short bow, and on his back was a quiver of arrows, along with his longsword. Cradled in his muscular arms like a child, Castus could see evidence of scars under his fur, and felt paws that had seen a lifetime of labor and war on his back and under his knees. His eyes were a cloudy green, like mist settled over a deep forest, and stared ahead with a focus and resolution that belied the weight of experience held in them.

There was no mistaking it. They had fallen in with a warrior.

---------------

There was a single wolf that did watch their escape. Guthrin had observed as the otter easily dispatched the warriors that came at him, his axe out and thirsting for blood. But as the otter escaped with the younger beasts, something held him back. This was a true fighter, dispatching his kin with a skill he had not seen matched by any other enemy so far. This was a creature that probably deserved, in some small fashion, to fight another day. He remembered what Cadogan used to say, about how this war was not the proper way to honorably combat an enemy. So many others, even those from tribes once stricken with feuding, all agreed on one thing: that this all-out slaughter, this demand for blood was just, that it was right that they come upon the weak and defenseless and destroy them, just like their enemies had done to them so long ago. Was that not the way of the wolves at the Edge of the World? Blow for blow; fit the punishment to the crime? They had been driven from their homes in violence, and these woodlanders would repay the price they had set by their own actions. His grip around the axe haft tightened considerably. Just thinking about it made him angry enough to want to sink his teeth into one of those wailing villagers.

But he also remembered the other, older teachings. The principles of respect for the fallen, and for the brave. What would it gain him to vengefully call down his other brothers on this creature? Surely one day they would meet in pitched battle, where killing was right and proper and could be done fair and square. He wanted to fight this beast himself on level ground. He wanted real honor. Cadogan would be fully avenged one day. From the scent he and his pack acquired, a squirrel and a mouse had done him in. This otter obviously had not done it. Guthrin turned away to continue the hunt, at a lackluster pace. Let the others satiate their bloodlust. That otter had proven that woodlanders were not as weak as he had previously thought. He had taken wolf lives, and would be slain by wolves because of it.

But in battle. Not in massacre.

--------------------

Castus had to hold onto the bleeding wound in his side, pressing a square of cloth onto the already bloody bandages. The pain was ever-present and insisted on spiking at the worst moments, making him writhe uncomfortably in the otter's grasp. Every breath was a dozen more daggers stabbing him all over again. At their side, Raya had to contend with running half blind with blood in his eyes, pressing cloth to his forehead in an attempt to staunch the bleeding, and Gander the shrew struggled to keep him upright as they ran side-by-side.

"Is it much farther, Sir?" Gander gasped. He was not built for such speedy, long distance running.

"Not now, Gander," the otter said over his shoulder. "Save your energy. Just run."

The otter did not feel safe enough to stop until the sun began to sink under the horizon, calling a halt in a sheltered grove of trees. It was small and cramped, but it would keep them sheltered for the time being.

"I pray we did not leave much blood behind," the otter said as he propped Castus against a tree and took Raya from Gander's grasp. "They are expert trackers when blood and sweat is on the wind. Come now, before we go farther I must look at you both."

Raya plopped down next to the squirrel, thankful for a rest

"You saved our lives," he gasped as the otter began to remove the impromptu bandaging from his claw marks.

"It's what I do," the otter murmured, hissing at the extent of the gashes. "You're lucky," he said. "Any farther up and you'd be missing half your ear. This will certainly leave some scarring."

"Oh, joy," the mouse replied. "That figures. Castus is the one who gets jumped, and it's _my _beautiful face that's the casualty!"

"I'm not much better off, Raya!" Castus retorted with a pained groan, shifting his weight. It only made more blood flow. "I nearly got my guts ripped out."

"Quiet now, you two," the otter ordered. "Gander, get me the needle and thread. We'll have to sew some of these up." Castus and Raya blanched as they looked at one another.

This was going to be a long night.

-----------

It was dark inside the small, cramped grove, but at least the encroaching trees and hanging branches provided a measure of protection and concealment. Castus was stretched out as best he could, watching the kindly otter warrior sew up his stab wound with deft motions of his paws. Clearly he had done this many times before. Castus' breathing was somewhat labored, though his eyes were unfocused and the operation did not hurt as much as he thought. He had been given a small dose of herbs to dull the senses and ease along the healing process, for tonight anyway. "We'll have to stay here for a time, hope the wolves move on," the otter warrior muttered as he worked on the last few stitches.

Raya slurred his answer, under the influence of the same herbs as Castus. "That's f… fine," he muttered as Gander dabbed at the stitches on the side of Raya's head, cleaning off the remaining blood. The otter had already worked on his wounds, but he kept imagining he was still bleeding and was secretly paranoid of an infection. "Feeling a bit tuckered anyway… ow! Watch it!"

"He complains almost as much as I do! And I've been through far worse." Gander snickered, folding up the cleaning cloth.

"Oh shut… shut it, you spiky-furred excuse for a mouse," Raya blurted out. "I'll lay _you _out flat…"

But he was already beginning to fade, leaning back against a tree trunk and closing his eyes. Gander finished the new bandages, careful not to leave any smears of blood uncleaned. It was said a wolf could taste his prey from a single drop of blood. They could not afford to take the chance that the stories were exaggerating.

"How long till we move, Sir?" he asked the otter.

"Not for a couple hours longer," he replied. "I don't want these stitches coming apart the moment we start walking. Take your rest now, all of you. As long as we are quiet, we should be all right."

"Wait… wait," Castus said through his groggy haze. "Who… who are you?"

The otter smiled serenely.

"Just call me Finnar," he said with a nod. "Rest now, all of you, and stay silent. I'll take watch. Lie still. We've got a ways to go before we're safe."

---------------

True to his word, Finnar kept them all safe through the night, bow and arrows in paw and at the ready. When the time to leave came and Castus was woken up, the pain had returned, though it was not quite as sharp as it had been. Perhaps the herbs were slow-acting, or he was just getting used to it already. When Castus tried to move it returned with a vengeance.

"Can you walk?" Raya whispered to him.

"I'll try," the squirrel replied, and they were off. It was well that they were trying to move cautiously, as Finnar encouraged them to be as silent and smooth as possible. Castus took the opportunity to keep his wound from re-opening as he slunk through the forest. Finnar guided them all, ensuring that noise was kept to a minimum. All three younger beasts kept a close eye on their guide, following in his wake, and even his pawsteps, if possible.

"Where are we going?" Raya chanced to whisper to Gander.

"Got a boat," was the shrew's simple answer, and then shushed them with a motion of his paw.

Howls were audible when the early morning finally came. By now, Castus' wound was cramping and fussing up a storm. Every step made him want to cry out, but he bit his lip and held it in. He was not going to be the death of everybeast in the party, not after they had been rescued so gallantly.

_The old heroes never complained about their hurts, _he scolded himself. What would it say about him if he couldn't take a few blows of his own? And anyway, though it was painful and ugly, it had not been as bad as he thought, piercing nothing vital. So far he and Raya had been very, very lucky... almost too lucky for him to be comfortable. It was almost as if they had been meant to survive. And that wolf in Stillglade, Trosk the weasel, had they been meant to die? He couldn't help but wonder.

Thankfully, their destination was not long in coming, and his thoughts did not dwell on such dark paths for long. Finnar led them to a bend in a large stream that cut a straight path through the forest.

"This will allow us to outpace the wolves, and they won't be able to track us directly," Finnar explained, and pulled aside a great tangle of bushes and leaves to reveal a longboat of shrew construction.

"Can you both paddle?"

"Not in a rough current," Raya answered.

"Good enough. We just need to keep the boat straight… too much paddling will arouse the wolves, anyway."

They all pushed the small craft out into the stream. Castus' side burned and ached, but he gritted his teeth and fought back the pain. Their lives were being saved. The least he could do was not complain.

"How do we know the wolves won't be watching the waterways?" he asked Finnar. The otter helped his charge into the boat before answering.

"They aren't much for the water," he said quietly. "And they'll be hunting down the ones who are actually standing and fighting. Once we're off, take more of those herbs. They'll help with the pain, which is sure to come back soon."

The boat didn't take long to cast off, but longer than it should have given that Castus and Raya's wounds were so fresh. At first Castus couldn't even move his torso, and Finnar didn't want to give him more painkillers in case he needed his senses sharp. It was decided that he best lay as still as he could to keep his wounds from re-opening. Not even Raya complained, knowing that survival depended on how fast they could get the longboat moving. He did help with the paddling, though Gander and Finnar did most of it. He could hardly believe how lucky they were now. But, he supposed, fate owed them for this! After all they'd been going through, they deserved a bit of safety, and this Finnar creature looked like he could handle himself easily.

"What about… what about the others?" Castus asked quietly after a short time had passed.

"I am only one beast, Castus."

There was silence for a long time after that.

The trip down the river was almost frightfully uneventful. Finnar spoke little and his companions even less, not wanting to attract attention. It was not until the afternoon that it was decided that they would halt their progress for a time, and Castus and Raya finally were able to discern where their savior was taking them.

"Fort Stoneridge. It's a safe place, for now, at the very border of Greymarch. It is still five days' travel from here, if we manage to keep to the river. I think it a good idea to do so. We need speed now more than anything else. Come on, out of the boat, we're safe for now… the wolves we escaped from will have been busy looting the dead and feeding on them afterwards."

"Stoneridge?" Castus asked, sitting painfully against a tree after he clambered from the river. He bravely tried to hide his pain in the face of their tough, capable rescuer. "I heard that place was abandoned seasons ago..."

"I didn't even know it existed," Raya added, as if to merely provide a counter-balance to his friend's eager identification of the obscure location. Castus and his story-collecting gave him a wealth of apparently useless knowledge. Raya didn't know anything he figured he didn't need knowing.

"Abandoned is a good word for it. All but a skeleton guard is there now. I can only hope they have been reinforced by Firedale and those who live south of the forest. It is one of the only strongholds between Greymarch and Firedale Keep itself."

"So what makes it safe?" Raya asked petulantly.

"The walls, for one thing," Gander answered in a deadpan voice. "If Sir Finnar says it's safe, then it's safe… a good deal safer than running around in the woods, after all!"

"Oh, and how would you know what-"

"What, exactly, is your relation to each other?" Castus cut in, curious to the high respect this shrew had for his companion.

"Gander is my squire, and I am his master," Finnar said matter-of-factly. "He has been in my service for three seasons now."

It took a few moments for that to sink in.

"Squire?" Castus said, sitting up and peering at the two of them. "Is that so?"

"Yup!" Gander said proudly. "I owe this here otter my life, and I intend to repay him in full."

"Even I know what that means!" Raya said, sounding oddly excited. "If you're calling him a squire, then-"

"Indeed," Finnar replied with a serene smile. "I am a knight."

---------------

A/N: Ridiculously short chapter after over two weeks, I know. But it's the best I could do with this one… the next chapter, however, will feature a completely different POV I've been wanting to delve into. I do hope you all like Finnar… I was excited to finally put him into the story, and I hope this wasn't too lackluster an entrance, or that Guthrin's reasoning was sound.

Read and review!

Oh, and a shout out to those who have reviewed so far: Foeseeker, Scyphi, Maran Zelde, Martin the Warrior, Auua Ytjmol, and Jade TeaLeaf. Thank you all!


	14. Chapter 14

_It was a mistake to let them go._

For six days they'd been on the move. Six days since Kaltag had sent Gavril and Balor along with several others to track down the two youngsters that had made his life so miserable.

_A fox always knows to cut his losses. Why didn't I just cut them away? Those miserable runts! I should have let Trosk whip them before I killed him._

It had been a sorry sight to see. Thinking he had triumphed, only to have two slaves escape the very night of his victory? Indeed the very two, the _only _two slaves he had acquired from Birchtown? There were still the riches to be gained from the many slaves he had left, and from plunder they'd chanced upon from abandoned villages and other spoils of war. The wolves left a surprising amount of treasure in their wake. The vermin under his control would still be happy, even if the group Kaltag had sent off never returned. They'd only see the disappearance of their comrades as a greater share in the reward that was to come. That Balor's intimidating presence was gone was a relief to them all as well, even the ones in Kaltag's group.

Kaltag did not share their feelings. In spite of his coup, he had acted like a petty, selfish little cub when he realized his "prize" slaves were gone. He had ranted brazenly and beat a couple of the guards till they whistled through broken teeth

_They've been sent into a war zone. Gavril's just a hired sword. Balor too stupid to even know how to lift a weapon. Their chances aren't good if they haven't found them soon._

It would be at least three more days until he really had reason to worry, but worry he did. It had been an odd, queer act to send such a force after two young slaves. Kaltag was unquestionably the leader, and as long as not _too _many casualties were suffered, they'd not complain, but he remembered the grudging way they had followed his orders.

_I raised Balor from a cub. And I sent him away again with a wave of my paw._

He had sent them because he had _confidence _in them. Knew they wouldn't fail him. But getting slaves back was one thing, and getting slaves back in the middle of a war zone where packs of wolves prowled was another entirely. Evidence of the war's increasing fury was more visible every day. Bodies passed, supplies abandoned, smoke on the wind, and once or twice, howls. Their pace was quick to avoid getting caught up in the whirlwind. Perhaps Gavril and Balor would simply have trouble catching up. He couldn't lose faith in them now. Balor would be able to handle any trouble.

_I remember when I first met that mewling whelp. He almost bit my paw off. But he learned to be loyal. And I tested that loyalty greatly today._

It had been when he himself was just a teenaged fox, a street urchin with a chip on his shoulder and a little gang of younger beasts at his command, growing up in Reaver's Bay on the West Coast. So far away, so long ago, memories like a fleeting ghost that darted between the tangled coils of his mind. He remembered other times in his mental meandering, caught fleeting glimpses, colors, sounds. His mother ranting drunkenly about how worthless males were, making him promise to strike it big and never get married so he wouldn't inflict more sons on the world. The tangy smell of Reaver's Bay's streets. The gang of land raiders that let him in, cajoling him with jingling bags of gold, then slapped him around and spat on him before accepting him as one of their own. The sad look on little Streetswiper's face when Kaltag told him he was leaving with the raiders to get rich off plunder and make his own little kingdom.

The days when his destiny was still so far, he and his plans still so young. Balor had been very young, too.

------------------

_Many seasons earlier…_

It was night time at Moorfield Camp. The chilly wind blew forlornly over the highland hills of the Borderland, wherefrom heroes like Rakkety Tam had hailed, whistling through the poorly-maintained palisade around the slaver camp. It was a sheltered place for raiders, thieves, and hopeful warbands to rest together, taking refuge in the dug-outs under the hills and doing business or simply looking for a place to sleep. Some even had families here, in the burrows under the hill. Aboveground, only a few ramshackle buildings stood shivering and shaking in the stiff breeze. Vermin huddled around campfires and spoke in murmurs. It was said that the wind in the Borderlands could carry voices for miles and highland hares would come hunting any vermin who spoke too loudly at night.

One beast didn't believe in such idiotic superstitions, and complained loudly to his companion, a heavy-set rat named Scramtooth.

"I'm telling you, the swag isn't worth half the trouble we went through to get it!"

"Shurrup, you bushy-tailed nuisance! Iffen the boss hears you speakin' like that, he'll flay yer hide!"

"I ain't afraid of him," a young and impudent Kaltag scoffed, leaning on one of the rickety buildings that dotted the hilltop, folding his arms over his chest. He had been doing much better here than he ever had on the coast, where everything was always salty and dirty and his fur was always damp. Here in the Northern Borderlands, where all the squirrels talked funny and the warlords did as they pleased, it was much easier to make a living. Much easier than the fishing towns on the coast, where all the old sailors mourned for the harsh land across the big water, where vermin roamed wild and bloodthirsty and wolverines grew twice the size of badgers. Reavers did as they wanted over there, they said.

Idiots and dreamers, Kaltag thought of them. The real bounty lay inland, where the woodlanders were ripe for the picking. He didn't fancy ships, and he didn't fancy long trips across a treacherous ocean, either. He was here to make a living. Glancing out at the camp, Kaltag was struck with a sudden resolve.

"I ain't afraid," he repeated with a shake of his head, swishing his tail over the splintering wood. "What'll King Lethis give us anyway? He's got all he needs up here. Plenty of forests and wide open space to farm, and those silly underhill halls he dug out. And what's our fearless leader brought him? Trinkets and ash heaps."

"Huh, it's more than what you would gather," yellow-eyed Scramtooth replied. Always blindly loyal, Scramtooth. Probably babied as a whelp and taught to obey rather than lead. Kaltag hated obedience.

"You want to bet?" he shot back with a grunt. "Old Brintig isn't goin' to last forever. We've been gettin' less off our raids south. First sign of a patrol an' Brintig takes us runnin'!"

"He's just lookin' out fer 'is gang, that's all," Scramtooth countered. Kaltag became frustrated and pushed off the wall, fingering the handle of his falchion.

"Lookin' out for his own hide, you mean," he said, baring his teeth. Scramtooth, who had never liked outright conflict, shifted uncomfortably while Kaltag continued ranting.

"This ain't enough," he said with a shake of his head. "We're bootlicks, Scramtooth, bootlicks! All the others in the gang see it, too, but they're too stupid and lazy to do anything about it. Well I've had it! I didn't join this gang so I could wander around in the wilderness, pickin' off lone travelers an' little rabbit warrens. When's the last time any of us went to the big city, Scramtooth? When's the last time any of us got to haul our loot to a respectable fortress, like Carlen's Hollow or Hightower? No, all we do anymore is scratch around the Borderlands an' wait for something big!"

He drew his weapon and began flaying the air mercilessly. His heavy cloak and thick tunic flapped in the wind.

"I ain't waitin' any longer!" he declared, holding his sword aloft and speaking to an imaginary audience.

"I'm gonna find a way out of Brintig's little group of river pirates, an' make my _own _gang! I'm sick of bein' nobeast, Scramtooth! When Brintig gets back here, I'm gonna make him respect me! I'm gonna- _oof!"_

He was floored by a well-thrown satchel to the side of his head from one of the campfires. The weasel who had thrown it snarled at him.

"Shut up, you mop-tailed rapscallion! You want the Highlanders to hear us?!"

Kaltag slowly pushed himself upright, feeling an ache in his skull. A pot in the satchel had landed squarely on the side of his head, and now everybeast who had seen the incident was laughing at him. His ears were positively aflame with embarrassment as he kicked the satchel away and returned to his spot against the wall. Scramtooth was hiding a chuckle.

"So much for that," he sniggered. Kaltag threatened a kick before being interrupted by the door of the main compound opening up. Both vermin stood swiftly to attention. Their leader Brintig trooped out followed by several others in the gang.

"So what'd our loot nab us?" Kaltag blurted out. Brintig grunted and waved his paw, belching loudly.

"Stupid slavers!" he growled as he meandered on, not even glancing at Kaltag. "Nothing but scrawny little mites and useless elders! Where's the real treasure these days? I bring 'em nothing but the best and this is how I'm repaid…"

A ferret shoved a leash into Kaltag's paws.

"Here! You take the brat, he's more your size anyway…"

Kaltag watched the others in the gang troop by, scowling at Brintig's back. Of course they weren't rewarded well, they never collected anything but scrap! He looked down at the leash. What was this? Some puny lizard or an old fieldmouse who couldn't even walk?

His answer was abrupt as the leash snapped taut in his paw, almost dragging him back inside the building.

"What in Hellgates!" he barked as he stumbled through the doorway, catching glimpses of sniggering vermin at the bar inside. He looked down at the struggling ball of fur at the end of the leash, and his eyes widened considerably.

There was a wolverine at the other end. Only a child by wolverine standards, but that was large enough. The creature reached Kaltag's waist in height, and was yanking and tugging for all it was worth, snarling at anybeast that walked by. Its eyes settled on Kaltag.

"You've got to be joking…" Kaltag muttered. He reached out to try and snatch the wolverine by its scruff, but it was too fast for him and snapped out, lunging forward with its claws. Kaltag jumped backwards before his paw could be torn to shreds, shaking his head.

"Useless," he snapped, and made to draw his falchion and chop the madbeast's head off. But he paused when he noticed the little wolverine doing something different. Instead of growling he was sniffing, turning his heavy head this way and that and crawling about on all fours. The shaggy critter was looking for food and advancing on Kaltag. The young fox watched it snuffle its way up to him, and then stare unblinking at his pouches. Kaltag, understanding, reached into the pouch and pulled out a piece of dry meat, throwing it at the wolverine cub. It snatched it in midair and tore into it, snarling hungrily.

_So he can be domesticated with as little as that. Interesting._

"You actually gonna keep that thing, Kaltag?" Scramtooth asked as Kaltag came back outside. The young fox paused a moment before answering.

"Yes, I… think I will. I've never had a slave of my own before. Maybe this one will turn out useful one day…"

-------------

Kaltag had rarely seen Balor leave his side after that. The mindless brute had always been a slave, and Kaltag had found a humorous irony that a creature as powerful as Balor had always served him so mindlessly. He had been like a little duckling following a mother duck no matter where it was led. He had never had any true feeling for the creature, though he had appreciated the many times his sharp claws had saved him from problems his brain couldn't handle. A little sheer brawn had proved more than capable of seeing Kaltag through many difficulties. If slavers were demanding exorbitantly low prices, or certain rivals were too uppity for their own good, Balor just had to show his formidable claws and crack his knuckles. Useful, yes, but never somebeast Kaltag thought he would actually care about.

_So why do I actually feel guilty?_

He supposed the potential loss of a good resource like Balor would sting him and he had mistaken that for guilt. They had been through a lot, and although Balor only ever saw Kaltag as the little furry creature that offered him food, he had proven his usefulness many times. But Kaltag didn't need him anymore, he was set for life, in command of over twoscore vermin who were loyal to him and a whole train full of slaves to be sold off. Balor and Gavril, if they really were killed and lying in a ditch, were at best a temporary setback.

Still...

"Thinking about the brute and the clod again, are we?"

He felt Sheena's paws wind their way around his shoulders. The two were perched on one of the empty wagons, pulled by two dour, muscular stoats. Most of the cages and other unwieldy equipment that would slow their retreat had been abandoned for manacles and slaves that mostly walked; it was the vermin that deserved a free ride.

"You shouldn't be so affectionate in broad daylight," Kaltag muttered over his shoulder. "I don't want to end up a laughingstock."

"Huh!" Sheena huffed, withdrawing her arms and crossing them over her chest. "Nothing ever pleases you, does it? You've gotten everything you could want, and you still feel like somebeast is going to stab you in the back any moment."

"They _will, _if I let them," Kaltag countered sharply. "Besides, without Balor around, they might start thinking they can get to me easier."

"We have you to thank for that," Sheena said with an arched eyebrow. "But what was all that about your great plans? Was Balor so integral to everything? Can you not rule this train with your own paw? I thought you were going to be a little more confident because of this."

She leaned closer.

"Are you... feeling guilt?"

Kaltag shifted uncomfortably and wouldn't answer. Sheena gave him a knowing look.

"You never once displayed anything like this before. Balor was just a henchbeast like them all."

Kaltag sighed. "I raised him. I brought him up and taught him to trust me. And then I just... threw him away. Like a slingstone."

"Well, nobeast could ever say he was any smarter than one. You're the boss, Kaltag. It was your decision, and if they happen to never return, they can't blame you. They follow orders because you showed you're strong. If you think sending them after those slaves was a mistake, your vermin will see it that way as well. Take it in stride, and keep their feathers unruffled. Start getting all wet in the eyes and you'll find yourself very, very alone." Sheena said with a casual roll of her shoulders. Kaltag didn't know why, but he actually felt stung. Sheena was a true vixen: disaffected, crafty, and wielding as sharp a tongue as any. It was what drew him, a fox, to her. But still, Balor deserved a little more than what Kaltag had given him, did he not?

These 'but stills' were going to drive him mad.

"I just... I'm not sure. I need my mind to clear up."

Sheena eyed him carefully, gripped his shoulder a moment, and then flounced off as though she had never known him. It was at times like these Kaltag was never sure if she was trying to insult him, condescend to him, make him think the 'right' way, or maybe even, in her own way, show a bit of concern through her consternation. Throughout their relationship there had always been a measure of emotional distance, certain parts of each other they refused to display to anybeast, and not for the first time Kaltag reflected that he had no idea who Sheena had been before they met. But that was the way foxes were, or supposed to be. Secretive, always holding back to make sure they had the advantage. Not like those silly woodlanders with their idealistic notions of vulnerable disclosure and egregious affection.

And yet, like Balor, he had stuck with her, and her with him. He shook his head and looked down the road before his thoughts could go anywhere else. If he let his guard down anywhere an enemy could find their way through. If he became weak, even Sheena would turn against him. He had to remember what his mother taught him, and what living on the streets and on the blood-stained Borderlands showed him. The world, and most everybeast in it, could turn cruel and terrible at a moment's notice. It simply wasn't worth the trouble to lend a helping paw when it would just get chopped off.

Besides, he had much more important things to worry about.

---------------------

The first happenstance of any import came at the end of the eighth day. By now, the giant forbidding woods were at last starting to clear up. The foothills and mountains were much closer, and through them was their destination: Frostmourn. The place where Pepin held sway and they'd finally be rid of their slave chain. It was profitable but bothersome work, handling so many creatures at once. Every so often one of them would get uppity or think they had a chance of escaping or fighting back, and they'd have to be beaten back into submission. Given how many beasts had already fled, there was not much to look at except each other, and not much to do except walk. Traveling was often quite boring. It was a monotony of aching footpaws and watching the clouds roll by and the sun slowly creep across the sky.

But today, Kaltag found himself standing at the head of the slaver column, looking down at a shivering wretch of a tree rat on the ground before him. Some slavers had found him snooping around camp during a foraging run and bound him up in the middle of the path, waiting for Kaltag to judge what to do with him. He was a small creature made for an arboreal lifestyle, covered in barbaric tattoos. His fur was unkempt and some creature's leg bone was stuck up in his headfur. But for his fearsome appearance he was shivering like a leaf in the wind.

Kaltag stood above the creature and let the tension grow, then spoke.

"Can you understand woodlander?" he asked. "Northern? Mountain dialect?"

"I speak you words!" the rat gibbered, seemingly terrified just of the tall fox's voice. "Do not hurt little Scrut! I's just a scrounger!"

"For who?"

"My tribe, brushtail! They are moving away from here. Away from all the death and all the howlers! Or what is left. Likkle babes and oldbeasts. All others dead, dead, dead..."

"Howlers?" Kaltag asked, raising an eyebrow. "You mean wolves?"

"Big, furry, howling, teeth!" Scrut whimpered. "They kill all! Kill all and bleed all! Not just tree-rats and ground scurries! Vermin too, like you and me!"

_I'm nothing like this pathetic mongrel,_ Kaltag thought, but waved a paw for him to continue, intrigued. It might be, if this conflict spread far enough, that information about the hows and whys would come in handy. He had never met a wolf, just given orders to pick up the wreckage when the war started.

"Why are they coming now?" he asked. "What are they seeking? And why in such great numbers?"

Scrut blinked blankly. Kaltag sighed and leaned forward, baring his teeth.

"Why here, and why many?" he asked slowly. Scrut shook his head pitifully, starting to whine. Kaltag snatched him by the scruff.

"_Tell _me, you snotty little excuse for a vermin!"

"Scrut comes from north, far north. Beyond the trees and the rivers. Wolves come from there too. They follow legends!" Scrut moaned. "They follow... they follow _him."_

"Him who?" Kaltag barked. "Who, curse you!"

"No, no!" Scrut said, shaking his head as though he were having a fit. "Mustn't say! Mustn't say! He comes! On great wings of black and shadow! He chased us out! Says all will be his! Howlers come and take it all!"

Kaltag threw him down and glanced around at the others, who only shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders. They didn't bother to learn all the different histories of the area, and this tree rat had come from further North than Greymarch. The terrible mountains, tundras, and alpine wastes at the top of the world. Kaltag had heard of them. So many stories. Scrut was babbling now, rolling around on the ground and muttering things only a seer would understand.

The fox raised his head and turned his eyes northward. It seemed appropriate, really, that the wolves would come down from there, a place of myth and legend. A terrible nightmare made all too real. But Scrut said they were following somebeast. Something was leading this army, giving it direction and purpose. Another wolf, obviously. But who could have possibly had the strength to unite so many feral monstrosities?

"Sir," a stoat said, approaching with something in his paw. It seemed to be a small, carved sculpture. "I dunno if this helps, but... we found this on him. He screeched something awful when we tried taking it from him."

"Hmm. That must have been all the screaming I heard earlier," Kaltag muttered, taking the bauble from the stoat and looking it over. It was rudimentary in form, but got the idea across. Kaltag squinted at the sculpture, running his fingers over it. Here were the broad, nightmarish wings, the long, sinuous neck, the serpentine tail.

It was a dragon.

Kaltag turned back to Scrut and showed him the sculpture. The tree rat instantly recoiled at the sight of it, but his eyes were locked on it with a paranoid, apprehensive reverance.

"Don't touch it!" he begged. "Don't touch it! Get off! You mess it up!"

"What is this?" Kaltag asked calmly. "Does your tribe worship dragons? You know those things aren't real, don't you?"

"Ha!" Scrut barked with sudden ferocity, struggling against his bonds. Kaltag was taken aback by the sudden rancor displayed, leaning away from the spittle flying from the rat's mouth.

"You know _nothing,_ lowland brush tail! Say dragons aren't real, pah! One is here! One killed my family! One leads the wolves! It is _he _they follow, he who brings their rage to the south! Burn, burn, all of you, burn burn away! Ha ha! Dragons are real, brush tail! Dragon comes for you _all!"_

Kaltag had heard stories of dragons too, and had never believed a word of it. Just myth and boogeybeasts haunting the dark corners of the earth. And yet this creature spoke so fiercely, so ardently...

"What are you going to do with that?" Sheena asked, suddenly appearing over his shoulder. Kaltag hefted the sculpture and pondered it thoughtfully.

"I think I'll keep it," he decided, and pointed at the now ranting and raving Scrut. "I'll keep him too. Maybe I'll get something sensible out of him. You there! Put him with the rest."

"You think it's wise?" Sheena asked, but apparently not out of ignorance. She spoke as if she already knew the answer and was testing him.

"Pepin told us to come down here and round up slaves. He told us wolves would be there to cover our actions. I thought it was just going to be raiders and warbands, not... not a whole army from way up there. And I never knew why, or how... I'm not sure, but... I think it may be worth it to try and figure out what's going on around here. Foxes never do anything without first knowing all the angles... it's time I figured them out for myself."

"Indeed," Sheena whispered, seeming oddly lost in thought. Kaltag canted his head at her.

"You all right?"

Sheena seemed startled, shaking her head and blinking rapidly. "Of course," she answered quickly, though perhaps too quickly for Kaltag's liking. ""Of course. I'm just starting to wonder if what he's saying is true." She pointed at Scrut as he was chained to group of slaves, kicking and very nearly foaming at the mouth, lost in some uncivilized chant.

"Well, the sooner we get out of here and back up the mountains the better," Kaltag murmured, pocketing the sculpture. "Wolves and dragons and old legends... it's not like any war I've ever heard of."

"And nothing we'd want to experience either," Sheena warned.

"Of course," Kaltag said, bidding the caravan to get moving again. He stared northward once more, and felt a chill that was not of the wind. He would be very glad to be sheltered in the mountains and fjords again.

He had some investigating to do...

-------------

A/N: Yeesh, I'm terrible. Another month since the last update and all I give you all is a pathetic filler chapter… well, I wanted you to know that Kaltag is indeed probably going to stay a part of the main story. I just thought, well, if he's going to be in the story, this guy needs a bit of attention. Trust me... nothing said in any chapter will not, at some point, becoming involved later on. He'll help you all figure out what's going on with his foxy, inquisitive nature! Everyone say thanks Kaltag!

Okay that's enough. The next chapter will be much more thrilling!


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: *Plays the Hallelujah chorus* Chapter 15 is here! Whoo! Another month after the last chapter! I'm terrible aren't I?

--

Castus knew that wounds were painful. Anybeast that took an injury and said that it was nothing was, in his opinion, a right fool. The stab in his side ached and throbbed with every slight movement of his body. He was absolutely useless at paddling the small boat that was carrying them swiftly downriver, which led Raya to complain vocally over the fact that he had to do most of the work, and it wasn't helping that he was still afraid of water after all this time. Gander had picked up on this due to his constant nervous glances left and right, and boasted mightily of the skill of his people in boats, much to Raya and Castus' chagrin. Grateful as they were for having their lives saved, Gander was being more than a little presumptuous! Words seemed to simply flow from the shrew's mouth, and he enunciated them however he wanted and in whatever fashion was most comfortable at the time.

"And of course you would notice the fine construction in the bow? Me own tribe made this boat, you know. Oh yeah, we know all the waterways up and down this area. In fact we're-"

"Gander, please," Finnar said over his shoulder. "We may be outpacing the wolves, but it's not a good idea to speak so loudly."

"Sorry. Sir," Gander said, immediately cowed, but it wasn't long before he snuck a glance back at his two companions again. Very chatty thing he was, Castus thought, settling back onto the bottom of the boat to stare at the sky sliding slowly past them. Perhaps it had just been a long time since he'd seen another beast around his age, which Castus gathered to be a distinct possibility. From how the boat was packed to the gunwales with bags and tools, Finnar and Gander seemed to have been provisioned for a long, lonely and arduous journey.

They had been sliding south, following the gentle curve of the broad stream to the west for the last day or so. Eventually, it would join up with others and create one of the great rivers that flowed south to the fertile deltas at the bottom of the land, in the far South. The stories of the wonderful, green places there touched Castus' mind, and he wondered if that's where his family would end up fleeing, as far away from the war as possible. In fact he wondered if they could just keep riding this peaceful stretch of water all the way out of Greymarch, on through the heart of Goldenvale, and down to the south where it was nice and peaceful. With the way his injury kept bothering him, floating serenely down the broad stream to safety was extremely appealing, though he didn't want to miss his family on the way down. Thoughts of his family hadn't plagued him for days, but the surprisingly quiet ride down the river brought it all flooding back.

Raya, too, was concerned for his parents, and especially his youngest sister Tabitha. He wondered, idly, what they would be doing about now. Tabitha was always looking up to Raya for help when it came to things she was unsure of. Wendel, his brother, was always quiet and withdrawn and no help at all when it came to a crisis. Tabitha would be asking about Raya constantly, he was sure, and the thought made him smile. She'd never lose faith that he was alive at least. His family might be harboring the suspicion in the backs of their minds about now, not ready to confront it but knowing it was there. He also wondered if his family was still alive to think about such things.

Both of them wondered about the knight sitting at the bow. They had barely spoken to their rescuer for some time now, and even though it was obvious he was a tough, seasoned creature who had seen more than his fair share of death and turmoil, they didn't know anything about him. Surely, Castus thought, somebeast like Finnar would be famous throughout the lands right now? If he was skilled enough to dispatch wolves so quickly and keep himself and Gander alive in this terrible war, somebeast had to know of his exploits.

The opportunity to talk came later in the evening, when Finnar had pulled the boat into the shoreline, declaring that soon they would have to be taking a walk. The river curved back to the west further down, but Finnar had no intention of simply riding it all the way to the South. He had places he needed to be.

"Fort Brightriver, marking the border between Greymarch and Firedale," he said to them as they lay huddled in a thickly wooded grove.

"It's safe there, or safe as it's going to get."

"I heard about it, once or twice," Castus admitted, gritting his teeth as he laid out his sleeping mat. The injury would plague him for another week or two at least.

"Supposed to have been one of the greatest forts around."

"Ha, get a load of that," Gander interrupted, dropping down a load of wild herbs he had found to eat with the supplies the otter carried.

"It's nothin' but a skeleton now," the shrew went on. "I saw it, once before, just a couple a' seasons back… helping the tribe move further north. Walls in disrepair, the keep just a big, shadowy blot on the sky. Terrible place to have a fight. Heh, 'spect it'll be the _last_ fight of many woodlanders if the wolves come there."

He sat down and began whetting his rapier, admiring the sheen of the blade.

"Be the last fight of many wolves too, if I 'ave a say."

"It is a safe place," Finnar reiterated. "Safer than many others soon will be."

"What about Icemoat Keep? Wasn't that supposed to be the biggest and best there is?" Raya asked, turning over on his own mat and nibbling on some dried cheese.

"What about it?" Gander spoke up again. "Last we heard it was under siege and ready to crack like a nut. Some stronghold of the North that was."

"Hey," Castus said with sudden vigor. "That castle was built to protect all of us. It was made by one of the Three. It's the biggest stronghold in all of Greymarch!"

"And Greymarch is toppling like a house o' cards!" Gander insisted.

"Enough, all of you! We did not come this far just to bicker about whose castle is bigger or better. Whatever the situation we must remember we are in it together," Finnar said in a voice that was somehow quiet and yet would brook no argument. The three of them, ashamed they had nearly sparked an argument, looked down at the ground.

"I must scout ahead," Finnar said simply. "We are near the border but we are not safe, not nearly safe yet. I hope you are all up to some walking when I get back."

He picked his bow and arrows and stalked off into the forest. Castus and Raya were shocked at how little noise the armored, burly otter made as he went to earth and was not seen again.

"Why'd a beast like him waste time with boys like us?" Raya asked rhetorically, but Gander was quick to answer.

"Because he's the best there is."

"Yes, I can _see _that," Raya said. "I meant why, if he's the best, does he care so much? Why did he save us, and why does he keep us safe?"

"He's a knight," Gander said with childlike simplicity. "Knights do that kind of thing."

He smiled fondly, looking down at his blade as he sharpened it. "I remember when he picked me up. I was lost, n'alone. He saved my life, he did. I owe 'im everything. My life, my skill, my opportunity to make up for past mistakes. Everything I am I owe to him. He found me when I had lost everything and gave it back again. Now I know we shrews are never really considered more'n mice with a chip on their shoulders, but Sir Finnar… well, he's made me believe even a shrew can stand taller than these other so-called woodlanders. If it weren't for us shrews, your glorious Three never woulda made it past the Harkenfjord, so there!"

He shook his head and grinned fiercely, eyes shining in the faint light cast off the rapier blade, now sharpened to a razor's edge. Castus noticed that it was polished to a bright sheen in spite of the bloodshed not two days ago; this fellow, though barely older than Castus, took his weapons very seriously. Gander raised the rapier and stared down its length.

"When this war's over and done with I'll form a new tribe and we'll be the roughest, toughest batch of arguers this side of Mossflower."

Picking up the sheath, he rammed the blade home.

"Nobeast'll ever call me weak again," he murmured, as though he had forgotten that his two companions were there. Castus and Raya wisely let the conversation slip and did not pursue the errant comment, seeing how riled the young shrew was. Silence fell, and somewhere in the distance an owl hooted, perhaps trying to find other birds. Castus wondered if the owl was just as scared and lonely as they were.

"So, this Finnar character…" Raya began.

"_Sir_ Finnar," Gander stressed heavily.

"All right, _Sir _Finnar. What's his story then?"

Gander blew a sigh out through his cheeks, staring at the ground. After an awkward silence he shrugged.

"Dunno," he said. "He hasn't told me much, h'as a matter of fact. I just know 'e doesn't have that screwy accent lots of otters usually do; prob'ly because of his respectable upbringing. He says 'e came from the south, though I 'spect he was from the sea, originally. Far, far away."

"How can you tell?" Castus asked, scrunching his brow. Gander wiggled his snout.

"He doesn't smell like fresh water," he explained in a low, conspiratorial voice. "A shrew like me can tell such things."

Raya sighed and flopped onto his mat, unimpressed. "Follow your nose… well, it's not like following anything else has led us anywhere better yet. Might as well be a nose!"

--

They were woken up by a sudden sound just before dawn. Castus awoke and saw, strangely enough, that there seemed to be more squirrels standing all around them. At first he was confused, thinking it was a dream. Abruptly a face clad in a red scarf was hovering over his.

"Time to get up, lad," a deep, indifferent voice said. Castus was abruptly snatched by the shoulder and hauled to his footpaws, making him whimper in pain from his stab wound, and pushed out to the center of the camp, bumping into Gander and Raya. They were all in similar straits, being held by tough paws of the stern group of a dozen squirrels, swords drawn to keep them quiet. All of them were dressed to move stealthily through the forest, with lightly woven leaf green tunics and hoods covering their heads and scarves over their mouths. All of them were armed to the teeth and their expressions were as masks, disaffected and callous. All at once Castus got the distinct feeling that they were in danger from this band of woodlanders given their war-like dress.

"Interesting that you've got a camp for four, and yet the fourth is not here."

The trio turned back to the red-scarfed squirrel, who also had red arm bands to signify some position in their ranks. He stared at them all with a hawkish, flint-eyed gaze, his fellows parting respectfully as he walked by. He was obviously their captain. The three youngsters were brought together for easier inspection.

"Release them, they're no threat. Apologies for the rude awakening boys, but we can't exactly take chances these days. We're under orders, you see, to collect the names and business of everybeast passing through here."

"You callous cur!" Gander blurted out, shocking even Raya with his brazen tone. "We're young and we're alone and two of us are injured! Are you mad? We're on the run from a bunch of bloodthirsty wolves set on wiping out everything north of the Ridgetop Highalnds, that's our business!"

The squirrel turned to Gander and sized him up, apparently annoyed at his interruption.

"And _we're _here to fight those wolves," he said in a low voice. "You'd best show a bit of appreciation."

"For what? Ruining some of Sir Finnar's good healing work? Wouldn't be surprised if you went and ripped Castus' stitches right out!"

The squirrel turned and glanced at Castus, raising an eyebrow when he saw the way the younger male was trying to curl in on himself. His eyes glinted with something like disappointment or frustration, and he sighed and pulled his scarf down, exposing a worn, weathered face.

"My apologies, boys," he said again with a bow of his head, though he didn't sound particularly sincere; at least not enough for their liking. "I am Captain Kirrhae. I am under orders to take in any stragglers still moving south, but we've got reason to be suspicious. Spies, you see…"

"And we look like spies to you?" Raya grumbled darkly, putting a paw on Castus' shoulder. "Sounds like you're trying to find them harder than you're trying to find survivors."

"It's war, boy," Kirrhae said sharply. "And it's how we do things. We don't just let creatures run around willy-nilly in times like this. In any case you're safe now. My soldiers will gather up your supplies and we'll be heading back to camp soon enough. This area is turning into a battleground. Wolves are pouring south in great numbers."

"We noticed," Castus wheezed sarcastically. "My name is Castus, and that's Raya, and Gander. Raya and I are from Birchtown."

"Yes, Birchtown. That and Ivybridge were wiped out early on. Might you possibly have any news of Icemoat Keep?"

"What do we look like, generals? And anyway I wouldn't tell a rude old twit like you anything," Gander said with a sneer. His paw rested meaningfully on the pommel of his rapier. Kirrhae narrowed his eyes at the shrew.

"You'd best be grateful it was we who found you instead of the wolves," he said darkly.

"Oh, I'm sure it's a grand improvement! You smashin' into _our _camp an' interrogating us like this!"

"Hoy! What is the meaning of all this?!"

A voice cracked over the camp like a whip. Finnar was approaching with another squirrel about his age at his side, wearing a yellow arm band. Turning to face him, everybeast seemed taken aback by his sheer, imposing stature and disposition. He was missing half his right ear and was heavily scarred, adding to his fearsome appearance. Fiery brown eyes flashed angrily at Kirrhae, who bowed deeply.

"Kirrhae, you dolt!" was the first thing out of the new squirrel's mouth. "I have half a mind to put a switch to your rear end! You brought your squad out of hiding to apprehend two invalids and a shrew?"

"Sir," Kirrhae murmured, "we have orders from Lord Hoster himself to be on the lookout for spies-"

"Oh, and that's a perfectly good reason to put the whole battle line at risk! Surely the wolves would be smart enough to send little babes to do their bidding! Well this otter right here has vouched for them, and we were on their way to pick them up only to find you storm trooping about!" the older male barked. "All of you gather up this mess and bring it back to the camp! Scouts have reported wolves on the way and we need to be ready!"

He glanced at Finnar and nodded to the youngsters. "They're yours, you take care of them," he said sourly, and marched off into the woods, the other squirrels grabbing up the supplies and carting them off, leaving the boat. The otter knight said as he dusted off Raya's tunic and lifted Castus' shirt to check his stitching; thankfully none had been torn.

"I'm sorry, boys. I was found by them shortly after going on patrol, and brought to their camp; it's a couple hours' walk thataway. Delayed me something awful. It was foolish of me to go off like that and not expect something like this. I had thought we'd be alone all the way out to Firedale."

"Ahh, we could've taken 'em," Gander said with a wave of his paw.

"Yes, the good captain looked chilled to the bone due to your way with words," Raya said with a roll of his eyes.

"Of course!" Gander agreed obliviously. "Why d'ye think we shrews are famed for how good we argue?"

"Are any of you hurt?" Finnar asked, ushering them along behind the squirrels.

"No," Castus answered. "But those squirrels looked ready to do us plenty of harm."

"Yes," the otter answered in a dark voice, furrowing his brow. "They're squirrels of the plains, outside of Greymarch, under Lord Hoster. Well meaning creatures… but extremely zealous to defend their homes. They are full of pride from what I've seen, and will do everything to keep their homes suffering the fate your own did. It is good we found them, though. They are professional soldiers, the first I've seen since the war started. They have a fortified camp not far from here… incidentally we are only a couple days away from Greymarch's borders on footpaw."

"At last!" Raya exclaimed with relief. "I'll be glad to find some civilization again."

If it was a civilized camp Raya was hoping for, he was sorely disappointed. The squirrel camp was made specifically to be easily collapsible; tents and tree shelters were in abundance, scattered almost haphazardly within a thin perimeter of raised dirt and spikes stuck into the ground. There was nothing comfortable about it; it was a purely military outpost. Armed squirrels holding spears, axes and bows in abundance scampered back and forth, hurried and hushed. All of them looked ready for battle, staring angrily or anxiously at the woods around them and speaking in quick, clipped voices. Castus noticed they were more burly and thick-limbed than squirrels of the Greymarch. Perhaps seasons of living out on the open fields and gentle hills of Firedale had encouraged this.

"They all look ready for something," Gander noted. "Well… even more than battle ready squirrels would."

"Yes, I overheard some conversation when I was brought here," Finnar answered as they passed through the picket line. "The wolves are moving faster than expected. We covered quite a bit of distance in the boat, more than we would have walking, but the wolves seem to be in a frenzy. They want a real fight."

"And they'll get one, too," the yellow-banded squirrel said from the front of the group of returning soldiers. "We've got orders to contain them if we can, to slow them up so we can give our armies more time to mobilize."

"More time?" Raya asked, emboldened by Finnar's presence. The otter however made a half-hearted attempt to shush him, but Raya shrugged him off. For some reason, the sight of all these war-ready beasts had sparked a feeling of injustice in him. Where were they when they were really needed? When Stillglade was burned and Darcy's head was dashed open? Where were they when the first reports went south and places like Birchtown and Ivybridge might still have been saved? He had been keeping his frustration bottled up deep inside, hoping he'd never have a good reason to show it. But this recent situation with that ridiculous Kirrhae and this seeming general who was so confident, so indifferent to their plight forced him to speak up.

"It's been weeks! Our homes are burned and dead! Our families might be too! And now that we get here after going through death and blood and all kinds of horrible, horrible things, to find that you need _more time? _What more does everybeast else want! How could you just sit here and wait for them to come to you?!"

There was a shocking silence all around as everybeast in earshot turned to see the bold mouse who had yelled at their commander. The older squirrel stood stock still, glaring straight ahead, and for a moment Castus feared Raya was about to be struck. But instead, the brawny shoulders sagged and a sigh was let out. The squirrel turned to face Raya with a resigned, dreary expression.

"I am commander Brannagh, young sir," he said slowly. "I am out here because I was one of the few who _did _want to attack, to strike back and spare you and your friends the horror you've endured. But our wise leaders decided prudence… I call it cowardice… was a better option. They've held us back, worrying about some deeper motive for this war. Believe me when I say if I was in charge, we'd be hammering those monsters back into the caves they slithered from. I can only ask for your forgiveness that we hadn't gotten here sooner."

He glanced around to face his soldiers, who stared at him in surprise. Never had they heard the commander speak so openly, or so tenderly before.

"I make a promise to you now, brothers and sisters," he said in a louder voice, raising his paws to draw their attention. "These wolves will pay for what they've done! Every life we've lost will be avenged here! We know they are coming! And when they arrive we will give them a welcome warmed with their own blood! Not one more step will they take so long as we draw breath! Aye?!"

The commander's voice had risen to a mighty shout, which was returned with gusto by all the assembled squirrels. Cheers and war whoops came from the trees, behind the bushes, and weapons were brandished in the early morning light. It was a sight that put a fire in Castus' heart. Brannagh nodded in satisfaction and turned back to the others.

"You can stay at our camp, get some rest and food. But it won't be safe here much longer. We can expect an attack some time tomorrow morning."

Finnar led them to an unoccupied fire pit and saw to it they had a proper meal. All three of them were famished, though they didn't dare admit it for fear of looking like they were complaining. Platefuls of dried fruit, black bread and smoked fish vanished down their throats, washed down by canteen after canteen of cool water. Castus' injury gave him a bit of trouble, but he was enjoying the food so much that he found it very easy to ignore.

"Nothing like a good plate of real food after weeks of stumbling about in the forest," Raya commented when they were done, satiated and feeling better than they had in days. Castus couldn't agree more, but he only nodded, clutching his stomach. As much as he didn't want to admit it, all this travel was not good at all for his stab wound. It would not heal well until he had a few days to simply take it easy. Being in the middle of a war made taking it easy quite impossible.

"You two should have some of my cooking!" Gander said proudly. "We shrews are known as the best cooks ever, y'know. When we get out of this mess I'll show you all real food from the paws of a real chef!"

"The way you tell it, shrews are the best at just about everything," Raya said with a roll of his eyes. Gander's continuous, insufferable dialogue on shrews and the accomplishments of shrews had been a highlight of the river journey. The young squire sniffed imperiously.

"Some would say we just about are!" he replied.

"Hmpf! Well, at least mice will always be taller," Raya said, absently fingering the scabs on the side of his head.

"That was uncalled for!"

Castus sat back and smiled fondly. Though it seemed they couldn't stand each other, Gander seemed to be meshing well with the duo, already acting like a good acquaintance. He was after all the only other creature around they could possibly relate to. Castus and Raya had had no close friends aside from each other growing up, and the dearth of other creatures their age had been on his mind during their travels. Had they all been called to fight like Gander? Would they soon be called upon to pick up arms? He shuddered at the thought, disgusted that a weapon might be put to bloody use in his paws again.

_And yet,_ a small voice said in the back of his head, _would it be so bad? The dagger had fit so wonderfully into my paw. Like it belonged there. Wanted to be there. And I knew just what to do when I lifted it up… and ended that poor creature's life._

"Hey, where's the knight?" Raya asked, jolting Castus from his thoughts.

"Off at a war council no doubt," Gander answered, licking his plate clean of crumbs with a complete disregard for etiquette. "I suspect me an' him will be called to the front! This is a good spot to make a stand, you know! We shrews have an eye for that kind of thing. It's rather exciting, isn't it? Backs to the wall, enemies to take vengeance on. Ha, with me and Finnar helping these stuffy squirrels, those wolves don't stand a chance!"

The fire in his deep green eyes surprised Castus, and for the first time in a long time he remembered that they were still comparatively young. They were of fighting age, to be sure, but that only meant they were strong enough to lift a weapon and swing it with killing force. Gander seemed so certain of himself, so ready to take life, and he had, back in the forest. It scared Castus to be so close to a creature so young and yet already so used to killing. He wondered if he would look like that, if he took up another blade and satisfied the poking, prodding feeling at the back of his mind. The shine of the rapier in the failing light, the sight of Finnar effortlessly, heroically dispatching enemy after enemy, the tales of old heroes who fought desperately and lived without regrets all culminated in a huge reminder of his early life's ambitions, and here he was watching it all being lived by others just a few feet away. The temptation to join terrified him, and he became glassy-eyed and thoughtful as the morning came up. Squads were being dispatched to watch out for the wolves' advance, and messengers came in from other camps across the perimeter of Greymarch. The activity swirled around the trio, who could only wait patiently until their ward returned.

Finnar was inside a tent at the far side of the camp, standing at the rear of a gathering of squirrel captains with a pensive expression, arms crossed. A shame-faced Kirrhae was in attendance as well. Commander Brannagh had spared a few sharp words for him before the council started. Huffing messengers had dropped down messages and departed again, and a hurriedly sketched map of the immediate area was laid out on a table in the center of the large tent. Other creatures besides shrews were here as well: a Foremole and his crew along with a few hedgehogs and mice were also present, commanding their own sections. It was a somewhat pitiful assembly for a full war council, but Finnar reminded himself that this was not the full force of the Firedale's armies. Trigoviste and Stillport and other towns would not be sending troops this far north. This was just the first of many other lines of defense. And yet, it wasn't the strongest, nor was it the best prepared. Why hadn't they advanced into the woods and fought the wolves in Greymarch territory? Had they really abandoned the north so quickly? Or was there something deeper and darker at work here, something Lord Hathig wanted to fight purely on his own terms?

When he first arrived here, Finnar had believed that he would just be passing through on his way to other parts of the land, knowing that there was little for a beast of his skill and stature to find. But all of this had been quite unexpected. And now here he was, looking after three young creatures and quite unsure what to do with them. He had fought in many wars besides this one, but his life had been a hard and lonely road; keeping others close was a burdensome task. He knew that in order to keep his conscience clear he had to do everything in his power to keep the boys he had collected safe. To do that, he would have to fight. To fight, he needed to stay, and they needed to leave.

The other commanders left him to his brooding. As far as they were concerned he was a vagabond, a mercenary. His exemplary title and outstanding service had won him no awards, no accolades. They didn't know about him, and if they did, they didn't appreciate he wasn't a proper soldier like them.

"All right," commander Brannagh said when all had settled down to their places. "This is the situation, and it's looking rather grim. You all know we aren't a full army here. Just a few hundred spread thin against overwhelming odds. But it's not our job to stop the enemy, despite what I may have said earlier this morning. That'll be impossible. The few sparrows we still have able to fly have gotten word back to us… the army the wolves have assembled has reached a massive size. We believe somewhere around six thousand of the beasts are moving south as we speak. Many more are still coming behind them."

There were a few concerned murmurs which Brannagh allowed to continue before silencing them with a glare.

"The North is lost. Icemoat Keep is either taken, or will be any day now. We have no news of anybeast further north than our line, right here. Greymarch belongs to the enemy now. And it is our job to try and slow down the wolves however we can, to study their fighting strength, skills, tactics, that kind of thing. Firedale needs what we will give them, with our lives if necessary."

He whipped out a baton and smacked it down on the map, pointing it at the circle that indicated their outpost. "We're going to disassemble our camp and set up an ambush for the vanguard of the wolf army, which will be coming through in a matter of hours. We have reports that their regular order of battle is to send out skirmishing units flanking small columns of heavy infantry in front of the main force. We are only four score here, but we will have the element of surprise on our hands… now, not far south is a rocky area around the path out of Greymarch. We expect the wolves will come right along this path we're on by tomorrow morning. We will wipe out the vanguard force and withdraw before they can form up and retaliate. This will be done in tandem with our other battalions across the border. Hopefully it will shake up and disrupt their advance before they reach our territory."

He scooted the baton further along the map. "Right here will be the perfect place to set up our attack. If our scouts are right, we will face a strong force of about four score creatures. Perhaps thirty scouts to secure both sides of their infantry column, fifty heavy infantry."

"What kinds of weapons may they be carrying?" Finnar asked, which surprised some of those present. Obviously they didn't except anybeast not wearing a uniform to fight.

"We know they've been looting and pillaging as they go… no real chance to create weapons by the dozen high up on the top of the world. But we can expect their weaponry to be on par with our own. They don't wear much armor, or at least haven't looted enough to outfit their entire army yet. So we won't have to worry about juggernauts weighted down with plates of steel, thankfully enough."

Brannagh pointed at three squirrel captains.

"Gala, Folgir and Swiftpaw will take up positions in the trees to the right and left of the path and engage their skirmishers. Their squads will begin the fight by launching a volley of arrows at the main column once they've entered the rocks. At that point the rest of us will close in from both sides, and the front. We squeeze them in hard and don't give them a chance to spread out or form a proper battle line. Once that business is done we fall back to the fords, here. The broad stream, as you know, widens into a river moving southwest, curling behind our position. Those fords are the border of Greymarch. It is there we will make our stand against the main army. We know Lord Hathig is gathering a force of his own at Firedale Keep, and several soldiers from that army have set up barricades to reinforce us… assuming we are swift enough to reach the fords with our lives. We must do everything possible to delay their advance until the south is ready to face them."

He crossed his formidable arms and glanced around the table at all those assembled.

"We're starting the war from right here," he concluded.

Captain Gala raised her paw.

"Commander… I don't mean to be all doom and gloom here, but… we aren't going to be able to hold off the force of their main army for more than a few hours, days at best if we make them cautious. Our homes are just beyond the river. Lord Hoster's territory, Lady Bresna's farms… all we hold dear, right at our backs. I think I speak for most creatures here when I say we'd rather be up at the front fighting the wolves now."

Brannagh nodded gently. "I know, captain. I know. But Lord Hathig's messages have been clear. There will be no expeditions into Greymarch until we know the full measure of what we're fighting. I don't like it any more than you do, but there is a measure of wisdom in being so prudent. Rest assured. You will all get a chance to avenge the lives lost so far."

He met all their eyes with his steely gaze.

"All of you will get a chance. Now let's send these monsters back to the Hellgates they crawled out of."

With that, he dismissed them. The other soldiers left hastily to their positions, ignoring Finnar on the way out. Brannagh approached him instead.

"Are you going to be joining us? We'll need every sword we can get, and it's obvious you know how to handle yourself."

"If I did not help here I might as well just leave. I may not be a knight of the north, but I am a knight nonetheless. It is my duty to do all I can to stop this," Finnar answered. "I would have come forward, although I wasn't expecting a place in your army. I know you take pride in the integrity and pomp of your soldiering."

Brannagh lifted a claw and pointed it down Finnar's snout.

"Eh, you may think you keep a low profile, Sir, but your exploits have reached many other ears than you may think. I'll be glad to have you, whatever the soldiers say. Perhaps, if you were a little more prominent a figure in society, than some wandering vagabond, you'd be considered more a warrior than a mercenary. And, of course, the matter surrounding your knighting…"

"My profile is my own business, commander," Finnar answered simply. "You'll have my sword, but I'd appreciate if you didn't spread word of my presence. I've had enough of what fame can bring me."

--

"Gander, get up. The rest of you, too. You're all leaving."

"What? What?" Gander asked as he grabbed his things in a near panic. Castus and Raya stood up together.

"What's going on, Sir?"

"You're being taken beyond the borders," Finnar said. "To Brightriver. I will be staying behind to assist in the defense of the borders."

"What?" Gander said again, springing up with an armful of weapons. A couple daggers clattered to the ground.

"You mean them, right?" the shrew asked, nodding to Castus and Raya. "I'm staying, aren't I? To fight!"

Finnar had known he'd react like this. He blew a sigh between his teeth and bent over, retrieving the fallen daggers and replacing them on the pile. He put his large, rough paws on Gander's shoulders. "You are a good squire, Gander. But the war has only just begun. This will not be scouring the woods and fighting two or three creatures at a time. This will be all out war. I know you aren't ready for that yet."

"But… but I know how to fight!"

"Yes, but I cannot ignore the fact that this is far worse than I thought it was. I do not want you fighting yet. It is too soon."

"But that isn't fair!" Gander persisted. "I've traveled with you so long!"

"And you would question my judgment after all we've been through?" Finnar asked sharply, his fathomless eyes narrowing. Gander was cowed immediately.

"No," he said quickly.

"Then you are leaving, to go to the fort and wait for me there. I want to get a good look at the enemy myself before we just throw ourselves into this war, and this battle will give me that. Besides, these two still need looking after."

He smiled at Castus and Raya. Castus returned the smile. Raya rolled his eyes.

"Now then, there's no time, so neither of you start arguing like Gander. A single squad of soldiers will escort you three and the remaining civilians past the fords, into the plains and out to Brightriver. Stay there until I get back. Is that understood?"

He was speaking more to Gander, who bowed his head and nodded miserably. Finnar ruffled his headfur and turned to Castus and Raya.

"I don't know where you want to go," he said quietly. "But I've taken you this far and nobeast has claimed you. So I suppose you're under my care."

"We don't really mind, Sir," Castus answered before Raya could object. "We're… not quite sure where we want to go either."

Finnar regarded them both curiously, and nodded. "Very well. Stay close to Gander. He can take care of you if you run into trouble. There are only a few hours left until this place becomes dangerous. So you need to leave now." He put a paw on each of their shoulders.

"You are both very brave beasts," he said, not a trace of insincerity in his voice. "I'm sure you two still have quite a story to tell me, getting this far on your own. It can wait until I reach the fort, though. Whatever happens, I will get you back to your families. The word of a knight is his bond."

He shook all their paws, and then walked off to prepare himself, his gait easy and slow as though he hadn't a care in the world.

"He's really something, isn't he?" Gander said when he was out of earshot. "Well, orders are orders. You two better follow me. Since I'm the squire, I outrank the both of you!"

"Joy of joys," Raya muttered to Castus. "Our first boss isn't even our height."

"At least we're going somewhere safe," Castus answered. "I must confess I wanted to stay and help myself…"

"I'd pull you out by the tail if I had to!"

"… but I think we're _both _a little older and wiser after all we've been through. And I can barely breathe with this wound of mine reminding me it's there. I wouldn't mind a few days of rest."

When they reached the tiny caravan, they found themselves among a group of amicable creatures. The remnants of a traveling troupe of entertainers were there as well as a few other solitary refugees. They had lost the empty look in their eyes, hardened by experience by now. The soldiers assigned to escort them turned about.

Captain Kirrhae's face greeted them as the lead squirrel lowered his hood.

"Well," he said stiffly. "Hello again, boys."

"Ah ha!" Gander said triumphantly, dropping his wild assortment of cutlery down on the back of a wagon towed by two burly otters.

"Your general decided your 'spy-catching' was better done south of here, huh?"

Kirrhae did his best not to scowl. "Just find a place to sit and keep quiet," he growled. Gander stuck his tongue out at the captain's back as he clambered into the wagon, followed by Castus and Raya. Castus dropped down heavily, extremely grateful that he could rest his injury. The caravan started moving, everybeast walking at a speed just below a jog. They had to be out of the battlefield as quickly as possible. Raya unsurprisingly scooted to the front of the wagon and struck up conversation with the friendly, portly hare who led the troupe, and Gander whipped out a piece of wood and began whittling. Everybeast seemed to be finding a way to occupy themselves, whether with walking or talking. It was to suppress the fear. Castus could feel it as he looked back at the camp that was quickly receding into the trees. He caught a final glimpse of Finnar, drawing a sword and staring up its length before he was lost behind a tree. Though nobeast was talking about it and none wanted to admit it, soon those they were leaving behind would be engaged in a struggle for their very lives. Many would never be seen again. Outnumbered and with only the element of surprise on their side, Castus doubted they stood a good chance of victory; in fact thy stood none since they weren't going to hold this whole stretch of woods by themselves. But he had faith in Finnar, the knight who had stepped right out of the old stories and come to save them, to deliver them out of the dangerous woods and save their lives. All that was left was to wait.

After so many days on the move, he had to admit he hated waiting.

--

Finnar watched the caravan slip out through the trees, waiting until they were out of sight before he let out a sigh and leaned on a nearby table, then set to work getting his weapons together. His longsword went into the scabbard at his side, the short sword in the one next to it. His daggers and knives were set in the sheathes on his belt and behind his back. The bow was placed in the holder at his side, the arrows hung over his back. He checked each and every weapon, testing the sharpness, the straightness, the balance, as he did before every battle. He plucked off frayed fletching and sharpened any knife that didn't poke him at a touch. Heavy gloves were fitted to his paws, and he made sure his claws could reach through the ends of the fingers.

He had put on a mail shirt over his tunic which laid heavily over his muscular form. He adjusted the tightness until it fit snugly, feeling the familiar heft of the weight of all this killing material wrapped around him. He closed his eyes and took in the feeling, the knowledge that he was prepared and ready to kill. Very soon he would be spilling blood and silencing whimpers, roars and screams alike. He was a warrior again. Soldiers milled around behind him, going about to their various duties just like he was, their business keeping their minds off the battle that could come anytime between now and tomorrow morning. Finnar could see it in the way they moved, the way their muscles were already tight and stiff. They were preparing themselves however silently for the idea of death. At least Gander, Castus and Raya would be safe.

_I'm sorry we had to part, Gander. But I fear for the fate of this land. I fear what this war will bring. As terrible as it was, Hathig was right not to help immediately. Something else is coming. Something greater than these wolves themselves, something they will follow into Hellgates. It is the only explanation for something this violent, this unexpected.  
_

He drew his favorite longsword from its scabbard and stood apart from the camp, in a small clearing free of tents and soldiers. He went through a quick sword routine, whipping the blade through the air as though he were showing off a festival trick rather than preparing for strokes that would tear lives out of their bodies. His paws met the sword like puzzle pieces sliding together. Leaves and branches fell smoothly, quickly, with barely a shudder of the plants that owned them.

_I have traveled far. I have helped hundreds. Saved lives on all four corners of this continent. I am content with my life. I have never faced a challenge I haven't yet overcome. And yet…_

He stabbed the sword into the ground, whipped his bow from its sheathe, and fired off an arrow as he spun on a dime. It flew straight and true, but quivered for a long time when it stuck into a tree many yards away.

_I am restless._


	16. Battle of the Rolling Field

A/N: Chapters always seem so much shorter once you're done writing them.

--

Guthrin could not remember the last time he had had a good fight.

For weeks now they had been robbing and plundering the fat of the land, wiping out small villages and eliminating small pockets of resistance. Was this really the same land that their ancestors had bled and died for? The very same creatures that had pushed them out with such furor so many generations ago seemed to be dying in droves. He could not fathom what kind of war this was. And now they were on the move again, under the command of Battle Captain Vikron. The gaunt, wraith-like wolf had been sent personally by Corragh the Woodshadow to lead this particular section of the vanguard. Far scouts had reported enemy movement at the borders of the woods. Soon, the breakout they had all been hoping for would occur, and the true war could begin. There would be no more skulking about in the woods, raiding small towns like some common brigands. No, they would match their axes against those of true warriors! There would be creatures fighting for their lives and homes down there; a truly honorable war between brave beasts if he ever saw one.

Perhaps this mission would not be folly after all. Perhaps it really was the will of the gods that this was happening. Were it not for the divine intervention they had known already, none of the tribes would have considered coming together to attack the south and reclaim their birthright. The fact that wolves were working together was itself something of a miracle. Had it all happened so quickly? It seemed to be a blur, talk of the great plan that had been conceived arriving at the gates of their village, the swift preparations for war, the battle fever that consumed them all. A flame of destiny had sparked in the midst of their frozen home. That alone was miraculous enough for Guthrin. And then there were the few days he had to say goodbye to those who remained behind, who would hope for a safe return for brothers, fathers, sons alike. He remembered her eyes, her face, and the unbreakable iron resolve in her voice, her beauty stark and smooth like freshly fallen snow.

But that was distracting. Few other females had come along, whether to fight or help care for the army, but this was a time of war, not love. His tribe, his love, his own survival, those were causes he had cast aside, in favor of another banner.

_His _banner. He who had come out of the snow and stepped into legend, his great black shadow spread over them all, at once terrifying and inspiring, ominous and auspicious. Perhaps the whole point of this war was simply to spread chaos at his behest.

Guthrin still didn't know if he enjoyed the thought of being led by a myth come to life. So long ago, before the great dream of conquest touched them all, it had been so easy. Life had been so simple. Love strong, live passionately, and fight to the death. The deep, close forest of this "Greymarch" reminded him of his childhood, living in the cold, frozen woods of the Deep North. Even the trees were as implacable as ice there. Everything had to be harsh and frigid, unyielding and without hesitation. It was do or die since the day you were born. He remembered the first time he had killed. It was another wolf. A thief sent from another tribe to steal precious rations. He and several other warriors had been sent out to bring him down and hang his hide at their gates as a reminder to any who would resort to treachery. Guthrin, though one of the youngest and unblooded of the party that had gone, was the first to strike him down. He remembered it so clearly.

_The scent of sweat, fear, and hot breath of those who were running for their lives._

Still so young, still so inexperienced, and yet here he was, charging through the woods about to take a life. A sense of deep injustice fueled his need for vengeance. How dare this coward steal instead of provide for his tribe like a warrior!

_The crunch of the snow underneath his paws, the feel of the wooden bow chafing in his grip._

He had come up behind the thief, who was too busy thrashing about in his attempts to escape to notice the young pursuer lining up a shot behind him.

_The creak of the bow as he drew back the string, the satisfying twang and the faint whistle as the arrow flew through the air…_

The arrow had struck the thief in the thigh, dropping him like a rock. Guthrin had not even given him a moment to rise up, instead landing on him and savaging him with his claws until his companions came to bind the intruder. He could still feel the blood dripping through his fingers. It was a glorious feeling. He hoped to feel it again sometime soon.

He looked to the head of the column and watched Vikron pass along orders to the skirmishers. The lanky wolf was always clad in a number of seer-like decorations, from bones to feathers to skins, making him seem much more imposing than he really was. Physically speaking he was nothing special. His long limbs and plain face, however, hid a deep and long-running streak of cruelty and martial prowess that some said could match that of the Gatestorm should he ever choose to reveal it. It was a well known fact that he conversed with seers on a regular basis and used the threat of arcane curses and beatings to keep soldiers in line. In the time Guthrin had known him and followed rumors about him, he had seen many strange behaviors from the wolf, but little evil. Regardless, he had told his own small pack to never go against even the simplest orders, having no wish to test the limits of their Battle Captain's patience.

Vikron was leading them through the woods to the south to see if the fords and hedges that bordered the Greymarch woodland were being guarded by the enemy. Many were hoping that the opposite banks would be thick with enemies ready to fight. So far the war had progressed with an ease that surprised them all, even the Woodshadow, the army's supposed tactical genius. Was it really so easy for woodlanders to abandon their homes? The vermin fought harder than they, but they were not skilled or united and were falling like snowflakes in a blizzard. If they had known it would be this easy to reclaim the North, they would have returned seasons ago.

"Bashestur," Guthrin spoke over his shoulder to his second-in-command.

"Yes, Honored Pack Leader?" the hooded wolf asked him, hurrying to catch up with his leader's long strides. He had been with Guthrin for three seasons now, and they had supported one another in nearly everything they did. Their trust was great, but Guthrin knew that even with a friend, tongues could not be loose. Treachery was reprehensible to wolves, and speaking out of turn could be considered such.

"You are my eyes and ears. Tell me, how is the army faring in your opinion?"

"Very well, pack leader. Though it seems too quiet here, does it not? It seems the closer we get to the heart of their homes, the less willing these simpletons are to fight."

"Indeed. Though I do not think we will be in this fool's peace for much longer."

"I and my axe can only hope, pack leader."

"What of the pack, anyhow?"

"They will follow you to Hellgates still. Nobeast blames you for Cadogan or the boredom they have suffered. But they are eager for the war we were promised."

"Hmm. So am I." Guthrin's voice dropped considerably. "Slitting the throats of children and elders does not sit well with me."

"Nobeast has seen you do such things, pack leader, nor would accuse you of such."

"Aye, but it is what this army does, is it not? We are here to destroy our enemies. Wipe them clean as they tried to do to us. And yet… this chafes me. The Gatestorm's fury grows every day. I heard it was he who led the final charge into the castle called Icemoat… the stories say he slew half the garrison himself, whether they were fit to fight or not. The Woodshadow's ability to inspire fear makes us think him a demon… and then there's him. He who led us here."

Bashestur looked down to the ground and cleared his throat awkwardly.

"May I… speak as an equal, pack leader?"

"You may."

"It seems to me you merely long for the comforts of home again. Do you… do you not believe in what we are doing?"

"Of course I do," Guthrin said quickly. "You know me, Bashestur. I love war and races and other things males should. But… perhaps I am somewhat soft. Do you think me a coward for loving my home and family?"

"Of course not, Guthrin. But we do them honor by being here. You cannot be torn between two places. This is all ours, Guthrin. The North, and these woods. It is both our home. If _you _do not believe in what we are doing, then what is the point of being here? What are we really following?"

Guthrin did not have an answer. His own pack, though still smarting from the loss of Cadogan, had merged into the main army without complaint. They were all happy to be leading the expedition to the borders of the North, to be a part of this grand crusade to retake everything that had once been theirs. The Fury of the North was alive in them. Guthrin simply wanted to have a good fight and go home. These woods were strangely familiar; the ancestral memory of his people reminding him of the bones of their kind that lay beneath the soil, but it was not his home. His home was back in the snow-bound steppes. Was this really where they should be?

He thrust those thoughts away. He could not be distracted. Distractions were deadly.

About mid-morning they came across the remains of a camp, and the stink of squirrels and other woodlanders lay heavy about it. They passed on through without incident, realizing that the enemy must have been very close. Guthrin had to admire the cleanliness of the place despite their obvious hurry. All except a perimeter of stakes and the occasional brush in the dirt from a dragging tail were left behind. He was at the head of the column, being one of the senior pack leaders and therefore close to the Battle Captain. Vikron bent down to the ground and sniffed deeply.

"Not a day old," another pack leader remarked. Vikron nodded once.

"Have the skirmishers move a few paces ahead. The column will split into packs and remain loose," he ordered in his scratchy, thick voice. It was a good strategy. They were now ready for a fight, able to split apart or merge again as they wanted, though travel was slower.

As the day wore on, Guthrin could tell the trees were getting thinner. They would soon be seeing the end of these woods, and the bounty of the south would lay stretched out before them. Guthrin wondered how well the big ugly castles of the woodlanders burned.

They continued on and tensions seemed to grow. Everybeast knew now the enemy was near, and every tree, every bush, every rock could hide some creature waiting to spring out and attack them. Only the distant caws of the army's ravens accompanied them. Vikron soon ordered a complete silence amongst everybeast. There would be no talking save what was absolutely necessary. The woods continued to thin out as they continued on, and the ground became more and more rocky. The trail, however, grew much better maintained. This was the start of the supposed "civilization" the woodlanders had thrust upon the land. Roads were all well and good, but their disgustingly large and dirty towns were signs of their incompetence and laziness rather than love for their world. Truly they did not deserve to keep this place.

The skirmishers soon went to ground on the flanks of the main group, and put their noses to the wind, keeping their bows and spears ready for action at a moment's notice. The terrain became more rough and hilly, bobbing up and down and being broken up by rocks.

As noonday came upon them, they reached a more open area that resembled a rocky, tree-ridden meadow. The trees were evenly spaced and thickly branched, with little groves spread here and there providing good outposts for scouts or archers. Rocks littered the area all around, large and small, and far off one could smell fresh running water. The fords must have been only a few hours away from here. Vikron called a halt to the march as they hit the edge of the silent clearing, and everybeast ducked down with their respective packs. This was a perfect place to attack. The rocks and trees provided good, well-spaced cover and it was open enough for a large attacking force to set up for battle and maneuver once the fight had begun.

Somehow, Guthrin could feel the boundary that lay beneath his feet. This was truly the beginning of their invasion of the south. The war would begin for real here. This was the border of Greymarch. It was where destiny would cross swords with the woodlanders and decide once and for all who deserved to call the North their home.

His nose twitched fitfully, trying to catch any scent besides those of his brethren. He could feel his body begin to key itself up for battle, his muscles tightening and his senses focusing. His eyes grew narrow and his ears were up so stiff he thought they might fall off. They quivered, desperate to catch the slightest errant noise. Bashestur and the rest of the pack behind him were completely still, eyes open and ears up. Little motes of pollen floated in front of Guthrin's face. The flowers here, he remembered, were surprisingly hardy and beautiful. It was a shame they would soon see bloodshed.

A songbird tweeted nearby. From where he was, many yards to the right of Vikron's pack, Guthrin could see the Battle Captain's lips twist into a silent snarl. Birds could be fighting on either side of the conflict, and one chirp could blow their cover. But to shoot at it would only start the fight before either side wanted it. There was no sign yet, but somehow Vikron seemed certain they were here. There was a certain feel to the place.

The Battle Captain raised his paw and let out a short, sharp bark close to the ground. The skirmishers began to advance, creeping around the rocks and peering into the tree groves. Nothing yet. Guthrin watched with painful anticipation as they crept forward inch by agonizing inch, trying to keep low and hidden, a nearly impossible task. There were large clouds in the sky, but it was far too open for any creature to stay hidden completely, unless they had much time to prepare.

Vikron glanced back and forth, seeming to catch something in his paw. He leaned down to put a paw to the dirt and began tracing his claws through it, humming deeply to himself as though he were a seer himself, willing the signs of the enemy to come to him. Guthrin had heard of this behavior before. It could only mean one thing. Vikron _knew._ He knew that there was an enemy here now. Perhaps it was a rustle of tree branches or a shifting rock. He had not seen it. But the demeanor of the Battle Captain had changed, though it was nearly intangible. He seemed more confident in stance and more forward in his movements now.

_Yes, _Guthrin thought with a rush of excitement. _He knows._

Vikron turned to one of his pack.

"They will fight here," he murmured, and turned back to the suspiciously quiet clearing. A low rumble began in his throat, exiting his lips in the form of a deep, rolling, tuneless song.

"_Ooooo…"_

He nodded to the meadow.

"Cha!" he said in a low hiss, and the entire force began making its way into the peaceful, quiet field. Guthrin was not fooled by its appearance; he knew something was here. He and his pack had their senses honed to a fine razor edge, their steps slow and deliberate. Every step and every movement was planned out ahead of time. They advanced at a slow, gentle walk, all of them crouched and ready. Insects buzzed through the air, heedless of the conflict of the bigger creatures all around them.

The wolf force did not spread too far, allowing its skirmishers to stay ahead and to their flanks, combing the field for any sign at all of an enemy. A shifting rock, a careless breath taken, a snapping twig. Anything at all.

And yet there was nothing. The anticipation was growing unbearable, yet still they snuck through the field, watching each other's backs and keeping a close watch. Every last warrior was ready to fight, but the fight would not come. Guthrin knew you could not force a battle. It only happened when the time for killing was right.

"_Ooooooouuuurrrrrr…"_ Vikron intoned again, moving almost casually among his war brothers. He seemed to be accepting of the situation, much like Guthrin. The battle would come when it came. Nothing could change it, nothing could speed it up. It would get here on its own time…

There!

Vikron's head snapped to the left as he saw a patch of grass shift without wind. They were here. He knew it. And yet on and on they went, almost heedless. There was an ambush somewhere around here, but to turn back now would be foolhardy and just allow the enemy time to regroup and think of another plan. There could be no turning back. The battle _had _to be here. The time was too close, to go away would just waste time. He could taste the faint whiff of squirrel on the wind. The only way to flush out a squirrel was to spring his own trap. They never allowed their enemies to outmaneuver them, since they prided themselves on always being able to scamper about and find a better place to shoot from. Vikron would know, having participated in several raids against wild squirrel tribes. Hopefully the skirmishers would spot something and begin the fight, taking away the enemy's initiative.

He stood up a little higher, raising his paw to call another halt. The wind shifted, blowing a stiff breeze back towards the wolves. The scent he caught surprised him. Suddenly he realized the enemy they were facing now was far more dangerous than he expected. This wasn't just a pack of squirrels waiting to launch a clumsy ambush. This was an army. The field was suddenly thick with the stink of woodlanders.

They were _everywhere._

A small, cold grin split his long snout.

"_Oooooooouuuuurrrrnnnnn…"_

He heard the twang of bows. Dozens of arrows whistled and hissed and buzzed like a swarm of berserk hornets as they slashed into the staggered line of skirmishers, felling almost a score in the space of a few seconds.

"_Now!"_

A chorus of terrible, wrathful shouts filled the air, beating on the ears of the tensed up mob of wolves. On three fronts at the sides and head of the wolf column, hooded and cloaked warriors threw off their disguises and sprang into existence. From behind rocks, trees, bushes, even from the ground itself a swarm of squirrels and a smattering of other woodlanders came roaring to life, flecks of dirt and grass and twigs falling from their bodies as though the very earth had disgorged them from its bosom to meet the invaders. The once quiet clearing was filled with the wordless shouts and screams of combatants charging to their doom, each angry yell merging with others into a continuous roar over the field. In moments the entire meadow was a melee of slashing spears and buzzing arrows. Swords clashed, wood chips flew as axes bit into shields and it was impossible to tell where first blood was drawn.

There was no time to think, no time to even scream. The woodlanders had been nowhere, and suddenly they were all around, arrows flying thick and fast. Guthrin leaped upright, drawing his battle axe and shrugging his shield down his arm and into his paw, his pack doing the same and bracing themselves for attack. A wedge of hooded squirrels and one or two hedgehogs dressed in mail shirts came barreling towards them. Guthrin could see the furor in their eyes, the crazed bloodlust in their snarling faces. Not content to sit and wait Guthrin and his pack charged at the bristling array of spears and war hammers, the pack leader using his shield to turn away a spear thrust before burying his axe in the belly of its squirrel holder. He felt the soft flesh give way, the warm blood spatter onto his paw, and saw his companions smash into the enemy at his sides, some literally tackling their foes to the ground to bite and slash with tooth and claw. Guthrin ripped his weapon loose from the squirrel's belly and kicked away the body, heedless of the insides that spilled out.

He bellowed an ancient war cry as he smashed aside a sword coming at his face, and then bashed in a hedgehog's snout with his shield boss with an ugly crunch of bone and cartilage, standing tall in the middle of a death field with the bloodlust rushing through his veins. It was war.

_This _was why he had come here.

Vikron and his pack fought at the head of the group in the thick of the enemy. The Battle Captain's long limbs hefted his sharp, double-sided spear as he began a dance of death. Three of his pack mates had died in the first moments of battle, arrows thudding into their heads and chests, but he was no longer concerned. He had killing to do. His shield turned aside any arrow that might try to seek him out. Meanwhile his spear stabbed and jabbed and swirled, sending crimson arcs in every direction as he painted the ground red at his footpaws. The remainder of his pack covered him at the rear. A wolf fell down in front of him, impaled on two spears which withdrew from his body and snaked towards him next. Vikron smacked one away with his shield and danced nimbly out of range, parrying another thrust and spinning his spear so the bladed butt was towards the enemy. He hopped forward and jabbed the spear into the squirrel's eye. He could feel the grisly scrape of metal on bone, his ears deaf to the horrid scream that followed, then whipped his weapon mightily to open a vicious cut across the face of his next opponent, sending him spinning to the ground. In one seamless movement he was on to the next victim.

The woodlanders were moving in packs of three or more, smashing into their chosen targets with blind fury to try to keep the reeling wolves off their guard and squeeze them into envelopment, but the flexible pack structure of their column allowed the wolves to find some semblance of order in the middle of the confused swirl. They didn't need to fight as one single unit to be an effective force. Each wolf alone was a frightful sight to behold in battle, and now that the gauntlet was thrown down and the woodlanders had decided to stand and fight, they would see the kind of enemy they were up against. They had cornered a dangerous animal.

------

Finnar had charged into the fray alongside Commander Brannagh as the signal to attack was sounded, crashing into the right flank of the wolves. Alongside him rushed all the other squirrels under Brannagh's command as arrows flew overhead from their ambush units in the trees. Finnar was outpaced easily by his spry, eager companions, and watched as one particularly bold creature used his spear to pole vault off a rock and leap onto the back of a wolf skirmisher, stabbing the blade through the canine's neck as they both came down. Finnar had already passed them by the time the wolf hit the ground. The otter had fired an arrow along with all the rest as the attack began, but now his bow was back in its holder and his longsword was out. He drew a dagger with his free paw and hurled it at a charging wolf decked out in furs and mail armor. There was the flash of metal flying through the air and suddenly the dagger found a new home in the wolf's arm, making him stagger just long enough for Finnar and Brannagh to bring their swords crashing down onto his head and neck, nearly decapitating him with the double blow.

After that, Finnar lost sight of Brannagh as he peeled off to join a couple of his fellows nearby, leaving the otter mostly alone. He quickly backpedaled as a maul came dangerously close to bashing in his face. Another wolf armed with a spear was charging straight at the otter. Finnar was not dissuaded, and leaped forward before the first attacker could recover from swinging his heavy weapon. The length of Finnar's sword dragged over his throat and opened his neck from front to back as the otter rushed past, eyes on the tip of the spear hurtling towards him. He sidestepped at the last moment and snatched the shaft with his gloved paw, using the wolf's momentum against him. The spearbeast went stumbling by as Finnar yanked upwards on the weapon, overbalancing him. The wolf found a sword sprouting from his stomach as he tried to spin about and yank his spear loose. His grip slackened instead as a ragged gasp ripped from his throat, and he was silenced forever as Finnar tore his sword loose and smashed the blade into the back of the warrior's head.

At once he found himself nearly gutted by a spearhead which scraped noisily on the protective shirt of mail and knocked the wind out of him. His attacker, tattooed all over with brutal war paint, lunged at him and Finnar was only barely able to dodge away. At that moment, he found himself plagued by one of the greatest enemies of a soldier in mortal combat: chance. A rock put itself in the way of his footpaw. He felt himself suddenly lose ground, staggering as the wolf kept up his relentless assault. His sword was knocked painfully from his grasp as he stumbled backwards, landing heavily on his back. The wolf stood over him, ready to bring the spear stabbing down into his chest. Thinking quickly, Finnar raised his legs and swung his rudder tail as hard as he could, smacking the shin of his opponent and making him yelp and jump. In an instant, Finnar was sitting back up and driving his short sword as hard as he could into the wolf's stomach. He could hear the unnerving _snick _of metal driving through flesh, and the wolf's claws were upon him in a moment, scraping into the back of his neck. Finnar yelled and pushed the wolf forward, stabbing again and again as he got back onto his footpaws, until the flailing paws stopped pounding on his skull and blood was soaked into his gloves. The wolf fell at last with an annoyed grunt.

Finnar rolled over and leaped upright, pouncing on an unwary foebeast right next to him who had just finished decapitating a mouse. Finnar drove his short sword into the small of his back as he stood, feeling the frenzy of battle coursing through him as the fight began to draw out and the combatants more desperate. Finnar kicked up the shield his enemy had dropped, taking a quick look around. It seemed to be chaos, but he could pick out a vague line stretching across the meadow. In the center of a large bulge of the enemy stood a fearsome, long-limbed wolf cutting down woodlanders like there was no tomorrow. Where was Brannagh? He had to let him know so their archers could cut him down. But if he didn't take him out immediately, the wolf might be able to inspire his troops and fight their way out of the ambush. The woodlanders had been outnumbered from the start, and things weren't going well. He had to stop them from getting worse.

He rushed along the backside of the woodlander line, leaping over blood-slicked rocks and still writhing bodies, past raging, screaming beasts. He saw a mouse and two squirrels take a single wolf down with simultaneous thrusts from their daggers, and a flash of a wolf putting his spear through a squirrel's neck. All around was screaming, rushing death. But his aim was the enemy champion; he had to be their commander. He was standing tall raised ground near the center of the field in a thin grove of trees bordered by rocks. The canine warrior dealt out death like he was serving out drinks at a feast. His barbaric decorations of bird feathers and bones and animal skins shivered and danced frightfully around his body as he spun about in a macabre display of self-confident skill, reveling in the blood that flowed from the bodies of the fallen. Around him a thin perimeter of bodyguards kept other enemies at bay. Finnar made straight for the first hole he could find in the line. A burly wolf guard was suddenly taken through the belly by two spearsquirrels, who dragged him to the ground and finished him with two more brutal stabs. Finnar raced past them, and was confronted by another guard, snarling his defiance. Finnar brought his shield up and smashed right into him, knocking the guard straight down to the ground and running over his body. He was almost there. The grip on his short sword tightened as his gaze focused on the wolf captain, who was distracted with fending off three attackers at once. One quick thrust to the back of the neck and it would be all over.

But Vikron was far too skilled to be taken so easily. He heard the pounding of footpaws behind him and leaped away from his current engagement, backpedaling so the rear end of his spear nearly took Finnar through his belly. The otter lowered his shield and turned the blade aside, spinning into Vikron who raised the shaft of his weapon to block Finnar's sword swing as the two combatants spun to face each other, locked together. Finnar heaved against both ends of the spear with sword and shield, and Vikron likewise shoved back, barking an order for other wolves to come to his aid. He would deal with this riverdog himself. In truth he had been hoping for a chance to fight one. It was said that apart from hares, otters were among the most renowned woodlander warriors. Killing this one, obviously stronger and tougher than the other weaklings he had faced, would bring him honor.

They spun away from each other and took a moment to catch their breath. Both of them were blood-soaked and battle-weary. Finnar knew that several creatures on both sides might be watching, since this was a central location and on higher ground. If he won here it would be a severe blow to enemy morale. Then again, if he lost then fighting here would just be a way to announce his death to the whole army. The only option was to kill this beast.

Vikron began the fight by stabbing forward with his spear, trying to confuse Finnar with several quick jabs coming from different directions. Finnar backed up as much as he dared and thrust out with his sword, spinning about to keep the spear in sight. Vikron was relentless, giving the otter no time to rest, and it was all Finnar could do to parry the lightning quick blows. If only he had a longer weapon, then he wouldn't have to dance around like this and sneak his attacks in where he could. He and the wolf circled each other in this manner for several seconds, testing the quickness of each other's reflexes before Finnar took the initiative. He hopped forward and turned Vikron's spear upward, trying to force it to the side so he could stab at the wolf's stomach. Vikron spun about and tried to catch the back of Finnar's head with the back end of his spear. Finnar lunged forward and ducked under the blow, then spun on his paws and lashed out with his shield. He felt it connect with Vikron's gut, and the wolf grunted but did not moved back. Instead he grabbed the shield and yanked as hard as he could, sending Finnar off balance and sustaining a hammer blow from Vikron, who had grasped the spear with both paws and swung straight at the otter's chest. The mail caught the blunt blow, but the heavy shaft sent him reeling.

Finnar staggered and found himself with his back to a tree, and Vikron's spear hurtling towards his stomach. He twisted to the side, expecting the spear to be turned away again. Vikron, however, had put all his power into the thrust, and the spear tip burst _through _the shield, pinning it to the tree and twisting Finnar's arm. The otter swung wildly with his sword to keep Vikron at bay, but the wolf, now laughing menacingly, caught Finnar's sword arm and punched him viciously in the face, hammering him until he dropped the sword. Vikron now had his weapon, with it in one paw and the otter's neck in the other. He shoved Finnar back up against the tree, drawing the short sword back for a final stab.

He found otter claws dragging over his face instead, making him stumble back in surprise. Finnar took the precious seconds he had bought himself to try and pull his arm from between tree and shield, looking back to see Vikron picking up a long-shafted axe and charging forward again, blood streaming from the deep cuts scored on his chin and snout.

As the axe head came down, Finnar found his arm yanking free as something pulled on his tunic from behind. Vikron's axe smashed into the tree, sending wood chips all over. Finnar's rescuer Captain Folgir stood in the otter's place now, hurtling forward with a sword in his paw.

Amazingly, Vikron ripped the axe free in a wild swing, catching the squirrel captain in his side with a meaty _thunk_. Finnar saw the axe bury itself completely inside the squirrel's body from where he lay, cradling his sprained arm. Folgir crumpled like a rag doll, flopping to the ground as Vikron yanked the axe loose, blood flowing almost endlessly as the mortal wound was opened up. He turned back to the otter, growling in a rage, and raised the axe again as Finnar fumbled to find a weapon, a stick, anything. But there was nothing.

He looked up at the axe and thought about closing his eyes, but Vikron was rudely interrupted once again by a franciscaburying itself in the side of his head, snuffing out his life in a moment. His snout snapped to the side, his body following suit. Finnar watched as Vikron flopped over and crashed into the soft grass of the field, limbs flailing loosely, the axe thudding to the ground beside him.

Commander Brannagh stood several yards away, drawing his arm back from the throw he had saved Finnar's life with. The squirrel watched the wolf fall, and then hurried to Finnar's side, shielded by several surviving members of the attack.

"That'll throw them off for a bit," he said as he snatched up the otter from the ground. "Come on, we're falling back."

"We haven't won yet!" Finnar protested, who was still smarting from the loss of both his swords.

"No, not by a long shot, but that wasn't the point. We've got to head for the fords before we're overwhelmed. The wolves will keep coming. We cannot."

Finnar had to agree, and pulled himself, testing his arm. It was painful, but thankfully nothing serious. And he hadn't even received another scar, which was really something for him. Brannagh called for the retreat across the bloodied field as the wolves recovered from the loss of their leader, unsure whether to keep up the attack or remain where they were. The woodlanders made the choice for them. Disengaging in moments from their individual fights, squirrels rushed into the trees and mice melted into the bushes. The wolves, still disorganized from the attack, also withdrew to regroup and lick their wounds at the edge of the woods. The ambushers took the short breather to gather themselves and fire off a few arrows at the fleeing wolves, picking up their wounded under cover of their archers. An abrupt, eerie silence fell over most of the battlefield as the battle halted for the moment. Taking a chance, Finnar turned back to try and find his swords, finding only the longsword lying nearby the still body of a squirrel with two arrows in his back.

"I'm sorry it didn't serve you better, friend. Rest easy in Dark Forest," the otter murmured as he hurried away.

Finnar turned back at the edge of the field as an arrow flew past his head, drawing his own bow. Several bold wolves had advanced again, trying to pick off the otter as he was one of the last to leave. The otter calmly drew an arrow and knocked it back, then let fly. The first arrow snapped into the dirt, and the second took an unwary wolf through the leg. That convinced them to withdraw, and Finnar went back to the others, completing the withdrawal.

"We don't stop till we reach the fords," Brannagh called over his shoulder. "Advance elements from Lord Hoster's army should already be there. We have to tell them the wolves are already advancing! Can you stand staying on the ground, friend?"

"I'll be fine!" Finnar shouted back, and Brannagh took the trees with the rest of his troops that could.

Finnar, however, knew the fords would be no safe refuge, just another battlefield soon enough. Six thousand wolves with more on the way was a force that would take the combined power of the north to face, and he knew there was little that could convince the disparate tribes to send all their power to a small place like Firedale. His lungs strained in his chest and his head felt dizzy from the recent battle high, and though they were pulling back from the bloody fields he would have to prepare for more. He was in for the long haul now, and could only hope the boys were safe.

At this point, was anybeast?


	17. Chapter 17

Nyana had never had much to do, even as the daughter of the leader of the northern otter tribes. While her father was home, he would handle almost everything, allowing himself to be consumed by the extreme amounts of stress and responsibility that came with being Khunig Swiftwake. More often than not she was tasked with remaining at home and dealing with the Khunig's day-to-day matters while her father went off to war or to visit faraway leaders of other lands. While the work was hard, and her duties important, she found it all to be busywork more than anything else, and was always thankful for the opportunities she got to go outside and get some real work done, in the real world where she could see the result of her labor instead of giving orders to otters she'd never seen before, and then watching them go out and get to do things.

But now, she was starting to regret not staying at home.

The war was starting to take its toll as more refugees continued to flood south. Beasts from all over were pouring by the dozens and hundreds. Brightcreek was nearly overwhelmed by all of them, who had mostly been forced to flee without adequate supplies. Mercifully it was spring time, and foraging was plentiful, but that wasn't the problem. Brightcreek had never had such a glut of creatures to respond to from all over Greymarch, and it was difficult to funnel all of them to Lady Bresna and Lord Hoster's lands beyond. Brightcreek was named for the numerous small streams that flowed through it, providing a place of natural wetness and bounty. But it could not hold so many creatures all at once forever, and this was supposed to be a time of planting and growing for winter, not busying one's paws with bandages, and constructing lean-tos and other places for the desperate to live.

Nyana was in amongst it all, having taken charge of a large swath of creatures out on a wide grassy field outside of Brightcreek town itself. It was not just refugees that they had to watch out for, however. Soldiers from Lord Hoster's lands and all the otter tribes that swore loyalty to the Swiftcreek crown were pouring in to try and hold the line as Hathig had commanded. It was not a field army. There was too much uncertainty to have a giant mob of bored soldiers needing to be fed hanging about waiting for the wolves to come, here or anywhere . So, Nyana had taken the initiative of collecting any captains she could find and directing them to bring in food from the town and surrounding countryside.

"Bring those wheat sacks over to the eastern part of the camp," she told several woodlanders bent nearly double with their load. "And make sure there's enough room for more beasts while you're at it!"

"There's going to be more?" one mouse complained.

"We need to be ready if there are. If there are, we'll take it," Nyana said simply. "And if we can't, we'll do the best we can."

"M'lady!" a hedgehog captain hailed as he huffed and puffed his way up to her. "Captain Bircha reports his men have finished construction of the shelters on the south side."

"Have any birds reported anything from the front line?"

"Nothing so far, but we think the wolves are getting close. At least it'll mean fewer creatures to defend."

"Aye, because they'll be dead. Look, there are several families that are able to move, but they still have wounded. I want Captain Bircha b and his group to help direct them into the town for medical supplies. Some of their children have caught a fever from traveling."

"There are barely any supplies left."

"Then do the best you can and then hustle them south where they can get proper attention. Lady Bresna's land is just around the corner! And what about Brightcreek?"

"Being used for soldiering, m'lady.

"Ugh! Fine. Just get them out of here before nightfall."

"Aye, m'lady! Oh, and er… I was sent by your father," the hedgehog said quietly. "He… he and some of the others, the generals, are waiting in town. He wanted to speak to you."

"I figured as much," Nyana sighed. "Very well, tell them I'll be right along, we're busy!"

"He wanted to see you as soon as possible," the hedgehog pressed. The otter maid threw up her arms and began to march back to Brightcreek town.

"Fine, fine! Take me to him." She followed along behind the hedgehog captain, feeling a bit of pity for how much his portly body was being run ragged with silly messenger chores. Nyana was loath to leave the ones that needed her more than her ill-tempered father. She had barely spoken to him ever since their argument back in Firedale Keep, figuring if he didn't want to address her concerns, she would not come forward to him. He could have his stuffy, war-mongering, his brave posturing and his refusal to acknowledge any weakness whatsoever! She was tired of wasting her breath and seeing his determination to waste lives on a fruitless expedition against unknown enemies. They didn't even know what the wolves wanted yet, beyond destruction. Perhaps the others were quick enough to pass them off as just another vermin horde which could be defeated by a bunch of war shouts and boisterous weapon waving, but she felt there was something more, something dangerous behind it all. Most of her time when she had little to do was taken up by reading, especially the histories. The wolves had never been a concentrated threat. The tribes had never once united for a frontal attack on all of woodlander kind. This was something new, something different. To beat them, they had to understand what was going on.

Father refused to understand. In a way, she pitied him, believing he was under pressure to prove himself to all the others and therefore attempting to solve every problem on his own.

Or, perhaps he had simply lost his better half and was bereft of real guidance. Nyana's mother, an elegant and tall otter, had always given the family the temperance and wisdom that her father lacked. She had been dearly loved by Khunig Swiftwake and all those who lived under her. Until that day, of course. When her father had lost the thing that had given him light and life. Oh, to be sure, he had poured as much of himself as he could into Nyana's care and upbringing, but there was always a part of him that was left behind in his wife's memory. He had never been the same after she had died. Nothing had.

She glanced up at the entrance to the great town hall the hedgehog had led her to. Thanking him and giving him leave to grab a drink, she entered with a deep sigh. Her father had expected her to stay close on this trip, since an attack could come any day. But she would not be kept under lock and key simply because he didn't have the time to watch over her. Was she not the future queen of the northern otters?

The inside of the town hall was large and spacious, cleared out for use by the northern leaders. Chirchid and Swiftwake were somewhere in here, along with several others who were in charge of the gathering forces. The army was parceled out amongst their separate lands, to give as good a chance of defending all the north they could, but the Khunig had decided to put his base of operations here. So far there were seven hundred creatures ready and trained for battle, and perhaps five hundred more could be gathered on short notice if the need arose. It was not enough to fight off the entire horde of the wolves, but it made the villagers of Brightcreek feel safe.

All Nyana cared about was preventing as much death as possible. If that meant fighting herself, she would go at it with a will… though, given her father's over-protectiveness, she had never actually been in a battle, only observed them from afar or studied them in old tomes. She did not entertain notions of convincing her father to do anything different any time soon.

When his tall, burly frame appeared in the hall, she froze, and stood there waiting until he spotted her. Unsurprisingly, he stalked right over, a severe expression on his face.

"Nyana," he said quietly, with an underlying tone of iron in his voice. "I thought you were goin' to be back at the fort. I only _just _'eard you were out 'ere."

"I needed to stretch my legs," she said quietly, crossing her arms. "It's perfectly safe, father. The fort isn't going anywhere."

"That isn't the point," Swiftwake argued. "The wolves are only a couple days' march from here… maybe much less! They'll be at the fords soon; this is goin' ta' become a battleground."

"Then there is all the more reason to provide as much help as we can to get the refugees moving further south," Nyana shot back. "While you're playing soldier these creatures need direction, a place to go!"

"They have anywhere ta' go."

"Must you be so indifferent? You are Khunig Swiftwake! Destroying these wolves won't solve our problems!"

"It'll make everythin' much easier, I assure you!"

"Easier? Father, you haven't even fought a proper battle with these creatures yet. We don't even know how long this could go on for!"

"It'll go on as long as a single wolf is still breathing." Swiftake leaned forward and put his snout a mere inch from his daughter's. "Once we're rid of 'em we can start to heal the land. If Lord Hathig would allow us more troops, to concentrate our forces-"

"Putting our soldiers in one place will just make it easier for the wolves to destroy us in one fell swoop!"

"I think you underestimate your own father's ability to wage war."

Nyana flared her nostrils.

"I've never once doubted your ability as a warrior, father. None of us ever have! Stop letting your pride and your grief guide your thoughts and-"

"That is enough!" Swiftwake commanded. "I did not come out 'ere ta' get caught in an argument about battle tactics. Now listen. We've got reports of wolves closin' in on the fords. I need you ta' start packin' it in an' movin' back ta' the fort."

"There's still some refugees-"

"An' they need ta' get movin' as well. Now g'wan back out there an' tell 'em ta' shove off!"

"While you do what?"

"Get a good look at our enemy."

Nyana sighed and looked away.

"You're going to get yourself killed."

"It's not as though as I'm going ta' just jump into the thick of it."

"That's not what I meant! I know what you're going to do. You're going to try and find a way to stop this dead in its tracks, and it isn't going to work!"

"I know what I'm doin', Nyana," Swiftwake said gently, for once not letting his temper get the best of him. He was not in the mood for letting them part under strained circumstances.

"You worry, an' you argue without even raisin' your voice… just like your mother. It's quite becomin' of you."

Nyana sighed heavily and looked away. Swiftwake was amazed how much he was reminded of his late wife, and his face flinched, forced to ask himself if she would really approve of this. He was thankful his daughter could not see his lapse in concentration.

"Listen, Nyana. I'm serious now, daughter. I know you're next in line for my throne, but that doesn't mean I'm goin' ta' take foolish chances with you. I want you back at the fort; even farther if that's possible. When the wolves get here, nowhere will be safe."

Nyana glanced at the ground, and then turned her eyes back up to her father.

"I… I know. But father, I-"

"Don't bother with any of that!" Swiftwake demanded. "You're not stayin' 'ere, and that's final!"

Nyana shook her head.

"I know how to fight, father! I am not some defenseless housemaid!"

"Aye, you can wrestle, an' you can handle a sword, but you cannot fight, Nyana. This isn't somethin' I want you to be a part of! Not yet!"

"Then when, father?" Nyana demanded. "When? All my life you've been trying to shelter me! I know you don't want to lose me like you did…"

She stopped when she noticed the pained look cross her father's face.

"But I can't stay at your side forever! What if _you _were to die here? What would I do then?"

"I will not," Swiftwake declared forcefully, "die needlessly, Nyana. In fact I don't plan on dyin' at all any time soon. You have nothin' ta' worry about, daughter, I'll be fine. An' so will the rest o' the North once I'm done with all these blackguards."

Nyana couldn't help but smile. Her father had that endless self-confidence. It bordered on vanity, but it helped him get things done, by the Fates. She could never fault him for being zealous in trying to do the right thing, even if he fell short here and there.

"Father, I just wish…"

"My lord!" a voice called. A gruff looking male otter was hailing Swiftwake. "M'lord, a messenger has arrived. A sparrow, m'lord. About the wolves advancin' on the fords, and a few others who've picked up a little somethin' on the trail."

"Little somethin', eh? What is it then?"

"They're from Commander Brannagh's group, lord. They wished not to speak of it until you an' the others had seen it personally."

"Where are the other generals?"

"Dispersed after the meetin', m'lord. But Rhulig an' Sikkle are still 'ere."

"An' Chirchid?"

"'E's present, but drinkin' enough wine to fill a barrel, m'lord."

"Ahh, that figures… all right, I'll be there."

He turned back to Nyana. "Look, me darlin', just do as I ask this time, all right? I don't… I don't want us at each other's throats. I am glad you're here, though. Rather than back at that stuffy old keep."

"Tell me about it," Nyana griped, and knew then and there a bit of the gap between them had been healed. But her father was already turning away, already going back to his duties, his studies. She sighed and went back outside again, seeking solace in the bustle of the village. Soldiers were the main inhabitants now, though there were many civilians running here and there. Most of them recognized her with the help of the tiara she wore and bothered to stop and tip their hats or bow to her. She smiled whenever she saw that. It meant she was making a mark among the people, something a ruler should be doing. She wondered, however, if she was truly ready for it.

She didn't want to go back to the fort just yet, and instead spent her time with the villagers, helping them roll carts full of supplies and belongings, as many of them were moving out to the safety of Fort Brightcreek, or even further south. She gave directions and handed out supplies and was surprised at how much time it took her. When she believed she had only just started it was already late afternoon. She wouldn't be able to make it to the fort by nightfall. But it made her and many others feel a good deal lighter in their hearts, and that was what mattered to her the most.

"Oh! Sorry there missy," a voice said behind her, and beneath the neck line. Nyana turned to see a young shrew standing behind her, tipping a beret. Under his arm was a formidably large bag of foodstuffs.

"Didn't see you there, almost bumped into ya."

The ottermaid smiled.

"It's no trouble, young sir."

"Only about as young as you."

Nyana blinked at this sudden retort from the shrew, and took a closer look at him. Indeed, he seemed to only be a season or two younger than her, if that, and quite a tongue on him too, as befit any male shrew. She found it a source of amusement and consternation that shrews just had to have the final word in any argument.

"So you are. No need to apologize, I was a little distracted."

"Were you now, miss? Not surprised, lots to think about with the hubbub going down at the town hall."

Nyana, who had just been about to turn away and get a caravan together for her departure, turned back quickly.

"What was that?"

"Well, I just got here and only caught it because me and my mates were coming in through the gates as she came in."

"Who? Who came in?"

"The mountain hare! Didn't you hear her roaring back at the front of the village?"

"I… no, no, I was outside. What's going on?"

"Well, the fact of the matter is, she's a mountain hare from the west. Well, the mountains to the west, anyway. And she said she had a prisoner or something, I'm sure the generals are going to be interrogating him… stupid blighter deserves it, if I do say so myself! Not that I wanted to say too mu- hey, where you going?"

Nyana was already making a beeline back to the town hall. She had been struck with a bit of inspiration, and she would not be swayed. If they had caught a wolf, father and the others would doubtlessly try and interrogate it for battle tactics and the like, when it was clear they needed something else instead. Something that would give them a clue as to why they were fighting. Her father thought of vermin as blunt instruments, something that he just needed to crack over the head to fix. But Nyana thought differently. She had always known, sitting back and watching politics from afar, that there was always an underlying motive. Every attack, every invasion, had some kind of driving force. Vermin were naturally violent to be sure, but they always had an objective in mind. They didn't rampage like mindless beasts, and these wolves were no different. If she could get inside, maybe talk to it, she'd prove that there was a greater threat here.

She almost immediately found the other otter who had talked to her father earlier, acting as a guard at the very end of the large council hall.

"Where is Khunig Swiftwake?" she demanded. The otter blinked at the future queen and stammered, clearly not expecting such a brusque question.

"Oh, well, ah, that is, marm, the ah… he can't quite see anybeast at the-"

"Don't play dumb with me! I just heard a rumor a mountain hare came through here, bearing a prisoner. A wolf prisoner, am I right?"

The otter guard tensed and Nyana knew immediately she had hit the nail on the head.

"M'lady, I'm not supposed ta' speak of it-"

"Then don't speak… just point the way."

The otter guard gulped nervously, but raised a paw and opened the door, pointing at the left turn at the far end of the hallway beyond. Nyana thanked him with a nod and hurried on in. She followed the sound of raised voices coming from behind a door also guarded by two sturdy otters, who prepared their spears as she came close.

"Lady Swiftwake, you aren't to come in here," one of them started, but Nyana wasn't going to have it.

"I am Khunig Swiftwake's daughter, you big brick-heads!" she snapped at them, in no mood to be bossed around when she had such an important mission running through her head. "Let me through at once or I'll have you both arrested for… for barring the way of your future queen!"

The two otter guards glanced at each other, well aware that Nyana had no real authority to override the Khunig's orders. But she was spared further argument, because others inside had heard the commotion. The door swung open to reveal Chirchid in the door, his eyes widening at the sight of Nyana. She noticed his ears were quite red, a sure sign he'd been drinking.

"Oh! Oh, lady Swiftwake," he stammered, "what a surprise. I thought you'd be heading back to the fort already. I thought-"

"Lady Swiftwake?!" the Khunig roared from inside the room. Nyana winced as she saw her father barging out, shoving past Chirchid. The portly leader of Brightcreek nearly went sprawling.

"What d'ye think you're _doin' _here, daughter?!" Khunig Swiftwake bellowed at his daughter, who weathered the storm admirably.

"I want to be part of this, father."

Swiftwake growled and threw his paws in the air.

"This ain't a strategic meetin', Nyana. 'Tis an interrogation! If you think for one moment I'm goin' ta' let you in 'ere, then-"

"Father, please," Nyana said levelly. "You're making a scene."

Swiftwake huffed through his nose, staring at his daughter with a calculated gaze, matching her implacable stare. He had known that eventually he wouldn't be able to just park her back in the while he did all the dirty work. Still, he had hoped to spare her some of the more brutish and distasteful tactics of war. All his life she had been his pride and joy, and he had done his best to protect her, shield her from absolutely everything harmful. But now she was too old for that. The time of the young, dainty maiden was gone. She was starting to become a queen on her own, apart from him. Just like Hathig would want.

Instead of darkening his thoughts with ill wishes on the old hedgehog, he instead decided for her sake alone she would have to take a peek at what she herself might have to do one day.

"Very well," he muttered under his breath. "But don't say I didn't warn ya, daughter."

When she stepped inside, Nyana's throat tightened at the sight of the prisoner. Even bound and gagged, a wolf was a fearsome sight. He was a mass of muscle and fur, all bunched and coiled, ready to spring, and given he was clad in but a thin tunic, Nyana could see she would never last against him in a straight fight. The thick gray pelt was painted with red and green tattoos, once vivid and perhaps, in some far-off peaceful time, pleasing to the eye, but now they were dull and rubbed out in many places, giving him a dirty, haggard look. He had been beaten, perhaps several times to make him submit, and his fur was matted with drying blood, making his already barbaric appearance even more hideous and frightening. A low growl was constantly emanating from behind the gag. Several guards had their weapons out and leveled at the creature, who glared at everybeast in the room. When his eyes fell on Nyana, he snorted through his snout and his snarling redoubled, becoming a bass rumble that filled the room. He easily matched the size of Khunig Swiftwake, and Nyana suddenly felt very small and defenseless. She was in a room with a cornered, dangerous animal, and instinctively hid a bit of herself behind her father.

Perhaps this hadn't been such a good idea after all.

"Enough wi' all the interruptions! If all the guests 'ave arrived, let's get this party underway!" a boisterous voice called out at the far end of the room, breaking the terrifying spell. From behind the wolf, a tall creature appeared in the torchlight. If anything, she was just as wild looking as the wolf. With just one glance, Nyana knew she was looking at a mountain hare.

If a maid, she was a bold sight to see. She was dressed in outstanding garb, with a deep green tunic and a tartan kilt of blue and white bound with a large leather belt, from which hung a variety of daggers. A basket-hilted, double edged claymore was at her side, the pommel decorated with a bright yellow tassel. Between her large ears rested a bright red tam o'shanter, and Nyana noticed the hare's ears were decorated with foreign paints. What was it with foreigners and tattoos, she wondered?

"Ahh, a wee maid of the south, come ta' look upon th' enemy, aye?" the hare said with a toothy grin, exposing her large buckteeth. Nyana suddenly realized she was talking to her.

"Oh, er, well, yes, that is, not really wanting to gawk or anything, if I'm disturbing you…"

"Nay, haud yer weesht, little quine. If ye're 'ere ta' get somethin' outta this brute, I welcome ye. 'Twas 'ard enough ta' pummel 'im daown at all."

"She claims to have caught this one herself," one of the present generals, a squat shrew named Sikkle, said.

"More'n that!" the mountain hare replied. "Beat 'im to the ground wi' my own fists an' footpaws! Nay beasty alive kin defeat a mountain hare in close combat! Ain't that right, me bucko?"

She grabbed the wolf's cheek and pinched. The wolf snarled and twisted his head wildly, earning him a kick in the ribs from the hare.

"Ah'm Lady Brenda McGillyhall, an' Ah'm afeared a' nobeast! Fear not, all ye others. Ah kin translate some bits or two of what he'll say."

"How did you learn their language?" Nyana asked cautiously. Brenda grinned.

"When ye've been 'round the rocks long as I 'ave, ye pick up a ken or two, ye noo? Them wolves with their clishmaclaiver on a snell day, 'tis like a chorus a songbirds. Contermashious ta' popular thinkin', tis' easy enough ta' sneak up an' scrieve a word or two."

Nyana wasn't sure she understood a word, but it was answer enough. If she could translate adequately, that was just fine. Already she felt safer with this fearless creature in the room.

"Remove the gag," Khunig Swiftwake commanded, and it was torn from the wolf's mouth. He spat blood and immediately began growling and shouting in a hoarse language, doubtlessly calling down threats and curses.

"Buncha aff pitten nonsense so far," Brenda reported. "Lotsa bad language! Were I this 'un's mother, Ah'd skelp 'im gewd!"

One of the generals present, a squat shrew named Sikkle, stepped forward. "Ask him where the army is going."

Brenda kneeled down before the wolf and spoke. To Nyana's surprise, the wolf language the mountain hare knew was rather elegant when spoken softly, though there were a few harsh spots. She was likely speaking some kind of pidgin language, a simplistic melding of different languages. The wolf seemed to calm immediately, listening intently with perked ears. When he replied, it was in an extremely bad-tempered and contemptuous voice, but at least he wasn't shouting.

"'E says they're goin' south, an' will nay stop sae long as a single woodlander is in the way."

The questioning went on for several minutes, each uncooperative reply from the wolf being rewarded with a smack or a punch from the guards. Some of the questions put forward by the woodlanders were generic and yielded little information. Eventually, however, they settled on something interesting.

"Naow there's somethin' interestin'. 'E says th' whole kerfluffle was started way back. 'E does say there's a high-heid-yins leadin' the scrap… Ah've 'eard of such a thing, but was ne'er somethin' I'd expect, wolves leadin' each other."

"And who is that?" Nyana asked, stepping forward before her father could catch her. "Ask him why! Who is their leader? What do they _want?"_

"Hesh up, young lass!" Brenda said, and relayed her question.

The wolf's reply was only to grin and chuckle darkly, and say something in a very low, quiet voice. Nyana had to strain to hear, but two words seemed to be stressed more than the rest. Brenda seemed to stiffen up and stood up straight, breathing slowly.

"Naow that's a humdinger if'n I e'er did 'ear one."

"What'd he say?" Swiftwake asked quietly. Brenda shook her head.

"'Tis a word Ah' haven't 'eard since 'round the fire as a wee quine meself. This 'ere galoot tells me they're bein' led by somebeasty in connection wi' the drakes an' wryms of old legends. Me an' ma' folk 'ave 'eard such tales afore, back when the wolves were still in abundance. 'Tis somethin' th' elders always said ta' be afeart of." She narrowed her eyes.

"Th' Dragon Prince."

The wolf said something long and loud as the words left Brenda's mouth. He seemed to be praising the name.

"Who might that be?" Swiftwake asked quietly.

"A beast of destiny," Brenda replied. "We mountain hares started plenty a' fisty cuffs wi' these creatures, way back in the day. But one name in particular we 'eard from a couple of shamans, filtered into our own stories. Supposedly th' Dragon Prince is th' one who'll lead the wolves to victory over the world."

The wolf began to chant something, muttering to those assembled.

"Somethin' about… wing shadow? The shadow of 'is wings coverin' all. 'Is fury like a tongue of flame. 'E makes the paths clear an' 'umbles those who humbled us."

Brenda shook her head.

"What a load a' bruised fruit that is, eh?"

"Still… it's very troubling," Swiftwake murmured. "This… Dragon Prince, whoever 'e is, is the one responsible for all this, if what 'e says is true. But that don't give us anythin'. Who is the Dragon Prince?"

Brenda posed the question quickly.

"The wolfie says the Dragon Prince is all an' none. 'E's like the, eh… eh, 'ow ta' put this in regular talk… a personage o' fate itself for the wolves. When 'e comes, it means a time o' great upheaval. I doubt 'e'll spout anythin' apart from this nonsense. Very superstitious types, these wolves."

"At least it's a name," Nyana muttered, crestfallen that she hadn't achieved more.

"Aye, an' a sign a' things ta' coom!" Brenda said quickly. "The Dragon Prince is nay just a warlord. 'E's supposed ta' be the biggest radge ever ta' come outta the mountains! Trust me, where I come from, stuff like this 'ere war is an everyday thing. But this creature… 'e's a _legend. _One come ta' life! This is only the start if what this doggy says is true."

"Well this legend'll bleed when I'm through with him," Swiftwake vowed. "For now we need ta' start focusin' on the defenses. Nyana, I want you out of 'ere at once, an' no more arguin', d'ye hear?"

"Yes, father."

The wolf was gagged once again as Nyana left the room, her heart burdened. So now they had a name for their foe, the one who was causing all of this. But the mountain hares would know next to nothing save old fables about who this Dragon Prince was, and what he truly was here for. The wolves were expecting something much greater than any regular war. Could it really be an invasion aimed at reclaiming all they had lost before?

Was this more an extermination? The wolf had spoken like he was talking of a spirit more than a regular beast. If they were that convinced of what they were doing, this was going to be harder than any of them thought.

-----

"What took you so long, Gander?" Castus asked as the shew came back with their dinner.

"Ahh, bumped into some ottermaid with some fancy bit of jewelry on 'er head. Kept holding me up with talk, blah blah, she went. Then just up an' left!"

"Jewelry?"

"Yes, this little round shiny bit on her head."

"Really… what was it shaped like?"

"Oh, you know, waves, crests. Ottery type stuff."

"Gander… she might have been nobility. Did you pay the proper respects?"

"Oh, nobility was she? Rotten manners then, runnin' off like that. Ain't no respectin' a creature who won't even stand still to appreciate it!"

"Never mind that! Just gimme the food," Raya demanded, snatching the sack. "Did you get any smoked fish like I asked?"

"Oy! You three!" Kirrhae shouted across the road. "Get a move on! The caravan's heading out and we're already late!"

"Oh, hush you windbag!" Gander shouted back. "You're the one who's supposed to wait on us!"

--

A/N: I figured this is a kind of boring chapter, but I wanted to get back to characters that hadn't been seen in a while. And a whole new one that I plan to make central. Half the fun of writing Brenda is finding phrases nobody will understand! And this served mostly as a vehicle to show what's going on behind the scenes, blah blah. Filler stuff mostly, I know. But at least I actually introduced the main antagonist.


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: So I sat down today and said "screw it, I'm putting something down." This is mostly a transitional chapter to keep the story from dying, but I found it rather nice and relaxing to write instead of fretting over the plot.

--

Leaving Greymarch had been a big surprise for Castus and Raya. Gander had traveled extensively with Finnar, so he had seen at least some of the outside world, but his companions had lived in Greymarch all of their lives, surrounded by tall, sturdy trees and closed in spaces. Suddenly, abruptly, the forest came to an end, and the rolling plains began. This was the land of Lady Bresna and Lord Hoster, and Chirchid the so-called Creek Lord. Not the grandest of names, and it wasn't given kindly. The fort was officially in his lands, but it was a gathering place for all those who would defend the North from threats like the wolves. Nowadays, however, it was not nearly as imposing.

"This is ridiculous," Raya said as he took in the sight of the fort rising over the landscape, which looked more like a lump on a rolling green log.

"For once we agree," Gander quipped, leaning back lazily on a pile of spare clothing on one of the carts. "This place looks like a skeleton more than a fort! Didn't I tell you, Castus?"

"Do you three never stop your chatting?" Captain Kirrhae interrupted from the path next to Gander's cart. "I got you this far and all you can do is keep blabbing on behind my back! You've commented on every leaf, tree, rock, and gust of wind that we passed by!"

"Hey now!" Gander replied, turning to the squirrel captain and shaking his beret at him. He stared down the squirrel captain until he felt sure Kirrhae was starting to fidget, and then spoke.

"I didn't do any commenting, that was Raya. I just provided all the rebuttals."

Kirrhae groaned and kept walking, knowing there was absolutely no way to convince the shrew to just say his peace and keep quiet. Ever since they had left, he had done his share of complaining as well,

Castus came up swiftly next to him. As he was the only one of three that had showed a modicum of respect to him, he didn't immediately chase him off.

"Sir," Castus began, "is this it?"

"Yes, it's it," Kirrhae said, wiping his brow with the back of his paw. "This is Fort Brightriver. The place we'll make our stand against the wolves if they get across the fords."

Castus, who had been more gracious and aware of the captain's efforts to keep an eye on them, knew that he was probably just bothering Kirrhae. But the excitement that they had finally finished their journey, or at least one large part of it, demanded that he get to know this place, and Kirrhae was the best one to ask. Raya and Gander were already arguing about who was going to carry what into the fort.

"What do you think, sir? Do you think the wolves really will come here?"

"Who am I to say?" Kirrhae responded bitterly as he adjusted his arm band. "Instead of being back there, fighting with my comrades, I had to cart you three all this way. I have no idea if they'll actually come here. If what they've done so far is any indication, they'll probably come."

Castus looked up to the fort, which was lackluster in appearance. Gander and Raya had good reason to be concerned. The fort was situated on a large, flat, rocky hill that had a commanding view of the surrounding land, which was mostly level for a good way around. As this was part of Brightcreek land, several streams laced their way around the land surrounding the fort, some of them combining into a large pond and river that ran around one side and the rear of the hill, which the fort was named for. The rear of the fort was defended naturally by its rocky backside and this river, and the hill itself had been augmented by its original defenders by earthen ramparts and ditches to provide kill zones for the defenders. When it had originally been built, it had been an impressive and imposing place of security. But back when Serno, Eric and Esta had lived, there were still enemies to fight, all of Greymarch to tame. Brightriver still stood, but like an old, bent beast with no real interest in doing anything except sitting there and watching the world go by, eyes failing like the ramshackle towers, breath rattling towards death through the old worn gates, and earthen rampart and palisade limbs gradually wasting away. It did not look safe in any sense of the word.

"There are not nearly as many soldiers here as there should be," Kirrhae noted as the small caravan passed through the gates. Indeed, instead of being a bustling center of activity for the North's defense, it seemed like whoever had posted the few soldiers here considered the place a border outpost than a proper fortification. There was an awful lot of open space inside the fort.

"We'll be able to gather at least a thousand who can actually fight if the army gathers here… not even near enough, though."

"You think we're going to lose?" Castus asked.

"I think we'll make a good show of it," Kirrhae said in his usual diffident manner. Castus had gotten to know the captain as a beast of good intentions, but little good will. He did his duty, but unhappily and usually with glares at those who questioned him. His own soldiers seemed to treat him with the respect due to any superior, but it was obvious that they were not the most enthusiastic band around. Castus had to wonder what luck had thrown them under his care, and he wished dearly for the soft-spoken and well-mannered Finnar to return quickly.

"So where are we supposed to-" Castus began again, but he suddenly found himself alone in the yard before the gate, Kirrhae's back retreating to report to his superiors, if there were any here.

"I barely even see any other refugees, like us," Raya noted as he came up alongside his friend.

"Well, we are on the front lines. Everybeast else has probably already gotten somewhere safe."

"Oh, that's good," Raya muttered darkly. "So everybeast else is perfectly fine, but we're about to get caught in a siege. Great."

"We'll leave before the wolves get here, Raya," Castus consoled him.

"Oh, yes, because we've been doing perfectly fine so far, haven't we? I don't know if I can take much more of this, Castus. We know our families aren't here."

"Then we'll just keep going!" Castus said simply.

"Until when?" Raya asked, unimpressed. "We just keep going, further and further south, until we reach the end of the land? What if we don't find them, Castus? They could be anywhere! We don't even have rumors of where they went! The whole town scattered, didn't it? How are we supposed to know-"

"Stop it!" Castus hissed. "Just stop it, Raya. We came this far, didn't we? We got this far and now we're… well, we're safe as we're going to get. Have some faith, will you? It wasn't so long ago you were talking about how you were glad you fell in with me."

Raya stared at him blandly, and Castus feared that his friend was about to walk away. But at last the mouse's shoulders sank, and he sighed heavily.

"You're right," he lamented. "You're right again, Castus. Agh, I'm just…" He put a paw over his eyes. "I miss them, you know."

"So do I," Castus muttered, bowing his head. "I miss them more tha n anything."

It was a daunting prospect. They never once had heard of where their families might have gone, nobeast else from Birchtown had even shown up. As far as Castus knew, they were completely, totally alone in the world. Not even their shared companionship could relieve the feelings of loss and abandonment. Why hadn't their families left some kind of message? Could they? Had they been running too fast? Had they just missed them by a matter of days? So many questions remained to be answered, and he felt so small whenever he thought of them.

"Hey you chaps!" Gander called as he sauntered up to them. "What do you say we get ourselves acquainted with this place?"

"Acquainted?" Raya huffed. "I'd just as soon be on the road again."

"We can't leave without Sir Finnar," Castus objected immediately, which got him a flat stare from Raya.

"_I _know that, but really. We aren't soldiers, Castus. I don't like the idea of hanging around in a fort that can't even keep its own towers from falling down."

"Ahh, quit being such a stick in the mud," Gander replied, clapping Raya on the shoulder. "Long as we're here we need to get comfortable. Besides, I'm hungry, let's find the mess. What better way to be familiar with soldiering than hanging about in a fort? I'm hardly older than you, and I've been going around wiping out wolves for weeks now! You can do anything you set your mind to."

"Including bloody murder?" Raya muttered sarcastically, which Gander obliviously agreed to. Raya could still see there was truth to what the shrew said. If they were going to stay here for any length of time, just hanging around the gate was not going to get them anywhere. Perhaps, in the keep or with the other guards, they might find some kind of news of what was going on in the outside world. Raya allowed himself to be led along by the other two.

Undisturbed by the guards that were much more concerned with shoring up the failing defenses around them, the trio headed into the recesses of the fort, moving for the large keep at the center. Apparently, all the soldiers understood that the new arrivals were just refugees who might be sticking around for any length of time, and did not even question them as they came up to the keep's open doors, out of which other creatures suddenly came.

It was a powerful, youthful, yet grim-faced and flint-eyed squirrel, dressed in colorful cloths and followed by an honor guard of several tough, spear and sword bearing soldiers. The trio stumbled to the side as he and his entourage stormed out of the keep, eyes forward and never even heeding the youngsters who had gotten in their way. After they had swept by, Castus stepped forward again to get a look at their retreating backs.

"I wonder who that was," he said quietly. "Do you think it was Lord Hoster?"

"Who cares?" Gander answered. "Some other land owner, that's what I'm guessing. Always with their fancy clothes."

"I've heard about him, though," Castus insisted. "They say he's the youngest in his family line to rule over the grasslands near here. And one of the best at weapons."

"Castus, we don't have time for stories!" Raya objected. "Quit getting all google-eyed. We need to get some lunch."

"Fine, fine… but trust me, Raya, one day what I know is going to be useful."

"Sure, when pike fly," Raya replied.

They made their way to the main hall, where they found a sizeable number of soldiers partaking of a light lunch.

"This is the perfect opportunity to find out some things," Gander said with a smile. "You two get some food from the cook… I'll mingle."

"He'll mingle, will he?" Raya said with a shake of his head. "More like he'll find a way to get us thrown out!"

"Oh, hush, Raya," Castus sighed. "Not even Gander's that stupid."

"You'd be surprised. You weren't sitting next to him the whole trip!"

As the afternoon dragged on into evening, the trio found they had little to do around the fort, knowing next to nothing about soldiering, and fully expecting to be off by the next morning when word got to them from Finnar. The day was mostly consumed with asking after news of Birchtown, enjoying the intricately creative soups from soldiers who had little to cook with, and watching drills in the main yard. Eventually, dinner swung around, and they found themselves dropping into the main hall once again. The hall had an air of amicability and relaxation that surprised all three of them. The soldiers were all veterans, having fought in one engagement or more and regarded the coming war as mostly just another day in their business. The greater numbers of beasts encouraged conversation and a general mood of jollity; even the mighty lord Hoster was present, though he was at the far, far head of the hall conversing with some of the commanders over a bowl of soup. Castus and Raya quickly found seats among them, and Gander of course began to move up and down the hall at will, ingratiating himself admirably. The soldiers were of the common citizenry of the land, and were not at all averse to sharing a table with a few wanderers. All too quickly they found themselves swept up in the conversation, in spite of the fact that a few seats separated them from Castus and Raya.

"Aye, I came from the Greymarch, you know. Family o' mine resided there till just recently, in Birchshire, near the town in fact," one boisterous otter exclaimed.

"Birchtown?" Castus asked, sitting up straight. "You're from there?"

"Nay, little lad. Wasn't born there. Me Pa spoke favorably of the place though."

"Did you hear anything about where the refugees from there went?"

"Ah, not these ears, lad. M'sorry, but things 'ave been confusion the closer the wolves get. An' the birds an' sparrows that said they were to 'elp us 'ave instead scattered ta' the winds, or stayed up in the trees while the wolves passed by."

"Oh… it's just, I was born there."

"You don't say? 'Ave you ever visited Ivybridge?"

"No, but I always did hear good things about it…"

The sound of a fiddle above the chatter suddenly rose, breaking Castus' line of thought and drawing his eyes to the front. He couldn't quite see through the crowd, but it was a lovely piece of music, a slow kind of folk song that one might hear around a fire, one of many dozens or even hundreds of tales and legends passed down by the myriad of villages and tribes. He and the otter continued to make small talk about their respective homes, and somehow the buzz of many beasts talking at once gave Castus a warm, relaxed feeling. Sitting here in a crowd, watching shadows dance in the rafters from the fire, it all reminded him of his home, when stories were passed around. His posture became more relaxed, the soup rested easily in his stomach, the fiddle music slid easily into one ear and out the other, and for the first time in a long time, things felt a little more normal.

And then came the sound of a reed flute. Castus sat up straight and began to move to the front of the room, pushing his way through the crowd, towards the large fire in the center of the hall.

There sat Raya, playing with a look on his face that said he couldn't be happier. The hedgehog fiddler next to him was similarly engrossed in the music, letting his bow slide over the string harmoniously. Castus watched his mouse friend with an impressed smile, leaning back and crossing his arms as he took another free seat. Gander soon found them and stood behind Castuss, his eyes appraising the sight in front of them. Abrasive, cynical, pushy Raya had this kind of talent? It was nothing astonishing, with a few skipped notes and slips in tone, but every beast else was either hopeless at music or just thankful for the players. They didn't care, and neither did Castus and Gander. Castus had never heard his friend play in a "formal" setting among others, but the serene look on his face said he had found his established sitting spot for the rest of the evening. Taking a biscuit off a nearby platter he remained where he was, chewing and listening attentively.

The sight of Lord Hoster standing up suddenly and leaving with several others after receiving an urgent message was lost to him. His friends were relaxed, his belly was full, the room was warm, and the company far more friendly than Castus first thought they would be.

He settled back and let the normalcy flow.


	19. Chapter 19

"Are you sure? These rumors have to be certain!"

"They are, my lord. Reports of vermin uprisings in the south, mostly around Goldenvale. The vermin have taken to armed banditry on a widespread scale, sowing even more chaos, and there are rumors they've even been joined by the refugees we've allowed to go past our borders, even out of the Greymarch."

Lord Hoster was livid with anger. He stormed off the chair he had seated himself into and glared at the map of the North, as though he could burn away the vermin infestation just by staring at it hard enough. His assembled majors and captains stood well away from him while he had his tantrum.

"A pox on those traitors! Cowards and sniveling ungrateful wretches!"

He threw his paws in the air, looking less like a dignified ruler every second.

"We _gave _those craven vermin a free passage to safety! And they turn to bite the paw that feeds them! How? How could this have gone without our notice? How could it have just came from nowhere?!"

"We're not entirely certain," his aide-de-camp, a burly young Highlander named Crandor replied. Though his lineage traced back to the western Highland squirrels, and he chose to wear their garish ensemble of kilt and tartan plaid, he did not have their characteristic accent. "It's as if there's some kind of coordination going on. This is no coincidence, if I may so my lord.

"What about Khunig Swiftwake? And where is Brannagh?"

"Commander Brannagh is on the field," one of the majors, a lanky mouse, said. "Khunig Swiftwake is said to be with him, on the front line, fortifying the fords at the border of Greymarch. The wolves are hastening to do battle with them. We've received reports that Khunig's daughter is due to arrive… well, any moment now."

Hoster leaned over the table the map rested upon and ran his paw over it, glaring daggers at the whole land. Little wooden figurines kept track of the relative positions of the different lords and their armies. Lady Bresna was still organizing the relief effort for the refugees evacuated from Greymarch, so what soldiers she could bring were held up maintaining order. Hathig was still dozing in Firedale Keep, along with those who supported him. Their soldiers remained still. Hoster grumbled to himself and tried not to consider the fact that the old hedgehog had been proven right, and was thankful he was not here now. Hathig would probably be hacking up bile in all their faces, telling them he had told them so and they should have looked to their own borders. Now he would have reason to sit back and watch, tidying things up in his castle and making sure his soldiers stayed where he wanted. Dark thoughts concerning the hedgehog ruler swirled in his mind. No doubt he was grinning and twiddling his thumbs, ecstatic that Nyana Swiftwake had convinced the majority of the army to remain in their own lands. He could sit and be safe and not feel guilty about it now. Chieftain Whiteclaw was probably pouring the wine, and the shrew Gawjun Sage would be drinking it up with his underlings.

Cowards.

"What about Goldenvale?"

"Still mostly silent, my lord," the mouse major said again. "The last message we received was a week ago, and they said the situation was under control. You know they are not in a position to fight a war."

"They never have been," Hoster murmured reflectively. "Not since the final Custodian died. They're on their own for now. Hopefully, they can see to it this catastrophe doesn't reach our borders. The last thing we need is a vermin horde on top of everything else."

There was a knock at the door. Crandor went to open it, and announced loudly, "Nyana Swiftwake, daughter of the Khunig of the northern otter tribes."

"Ah, greetings, lady Swiftwake," Hoster said, turning to the young otter and leaning on the table, paws outspread and resting on the table behind him. It was a surprisingly nonchalant stance for a beast who was lord of all the tree squirrels in the North, but Nyana remembered he was not many seasons older than she.

"M'lord Hoster," she said with an elegant bow. As she did so, Hoster saw the queerest creature he ever had in his life rear up behind her.

"So you're tha' heid-bummer lordin' it over Brightriver, eh?" Brenda McGillyhall remarked boisterously, tattooed ears brushing on the top of the doorway. She was easily as brawny as an otter and twice as fierce, making Hoster's eyes widen considerably, and his retainers take a subconscious step back.

"Pardon me, who are… you?"

"Ah'm Lady Brenda McGillyhall, an' Ah'm afeart a' nobeast!" She said with a shrug of her shoulders. Crandor stood to the side, looking the mountain hare over with a critical eye. Brenda turned on him presently.

"What're you, lookin' at, wee cousin? Quit raisin' yer hooter at meh! Ah ken ye're a smoothmooter, ain'tcha? Never 'ad a snatch at a braw quine o' hares?"

"Uh… what did you just say?" Crandor replied, wondering if he should feel offended. Brenda only nodded sagely to herself.

"Thought so!"

"Father sent her back with me," Nyana explained. "He figured she was as good as any beast to keep an eye on me."

"He doesn't trust an army five hundred strong, does he?" Hoster said wryly.

"I beg pardon, my lord," Crandor piped up from his spot near the door, "but only about two hundred of those actually have any experience in wartime-"

"I'm well aware of _that," _Hoster said stiffly, and turned back to the map, leaning heavily on the table.

"The war has come to our doorstep now," he muttered as Brenda and Nyana joined him. "_My _doorstep. My lands, my subjects wait outside the walls of this fort, waiting for me to do something." He glanced at Nyana. "And because of your council and Hathig's orders, I cannot."

"Our homes are in danger too. I never thought it would go like this," the pretty young princess muttered, counting her claws.

"It's a glaikit bauchle what thinks they can ken the direction of a war," Brenda consoled her with a heavy slap on her shoulder. "Ye' done wot ya' needed, an' naow the wee ones an' those afeart a' fightin' 'ave a nice safe line o' soldiers ta' hide behind."

"Maybe so," Hoster said, "but there's no telling how long that will last. I have repeatedly asked Lady Bresna to bring her soldiers here and reinforce our position, but she is in Hathig's camp and believes securing her own borders will serve her better. Especially with these new reports of vermin raiders springing up everywhere to the south."

"I heard," Nyana said again, very quietly. "At least we have forces here to defend ourselves with."

"If we had gone into the woods and struck these wolves down when we had the chance, we would be able to attack the vermin gathering to the south of us and teach them their place!" Hoster countered, his tail flaring. "Granted! There is nothing we can do about that now. I heard your father is going to wait at the fords and see what kind of force the wolves can throw at him, is this true?"

"It is," Nyana said with a nod.

"That is foolish," Hoster replied, "and I have told him that already. Normally he'd be at my side and up to harassing the wolves every step they took. Seems your prudence is more infectious than I thought."

"I beg your pardon," Nyana said quietly but confidently, "but I didn't know the purpose of this meeting was to criticize my every decision."

Hoster stared at her quietly and folded his arms. "You may be an up and coming queen, lady Swiftwake, but you have little regard for how desperate our situation is, and how much worse it can become. Perhaps I can enlighten you."

He pointed at a heavy-set mole standing at the table.

"Foremole Tumbleburr, refresh my memory on our defenses here."

"Burr, we'm got a gurt five hundred odd beasts at this 'ere fort ready to bear arms, burr aye. Fort Brightcreek be'm a good place to settle daown, iffen we'm got the toime to work on et, but h'unfortunately it be'n gurt bad condition. Walls cracked an' rotting, gate's in bad shape. Built on a good foundation, but as moi folk always say, 'tis always better to be in the earth rather'n upon et, hurr!"

Hoster began to walk around the table and took up a wooden figurine that represented a wolf army, picking at it with his claws. "And of those five hundred we have barely two who can actually wield a blade, and less than that have ever even seen battle before. They are drilling day and night, but I do not know if it will be enough. Will it, major Rankle?"

"Forgive me, but it's still looking bleak my lord," the lanky mouse replied. "And depending on whether or not Goldenvale can contain the threat, it is unlikely Hathig will be willing to lend much support."

"What about… what about Stillport, Trigoviste Town?" Nyana asked. "Surely they can-"

Hoster cut her off with his sharp retort; he was famed for his fiery, commanding tongue. "Do you know, lady Swiftwake, that many of our subjects have not even answered the call to duty? Many would _prefer _to stay in their own homes and wait this out, and those two towns are a prime example. Stillport is in the middle of nowhere. They have a big river but no reason for anybeast to give them trouble, especially since they live in the wetlands. Refugees have mostly been shuttled there to head south, but… with this new vermin threat, I don't know what they'll do. As for Trigoviste, they are all the way up in the western mountains! They can provide shipments of weapons but for how long? Eventually, if the wolves cut us off…"

He shook his head slowly. "The sad fact is that the war is hanging on the edge of a knife. The balance can tip between either side… and right now unless we concentrate our forces and smash the wolves in a single, decisive battle, they will harry us all spring."

"If we go to them they'll be waiting, that's what I've said for weeks now!" Nyana protested. If we're as unprepared as you say this fort right here is the best place to fight them."

"We are preparing for the worst here. The walls are being reinforced as we speak," Hoster said quietly, but maintained his level gaze. "I just hope you know that there is a subtle but essential difference between building a wall and simply piling stones on one another."

----------------

The mountains had always seemed like nice but ultimately useless pieces of scenery to Kaltag. He enjoyed looking at them, and could appreciate a beautiful sunset just like every beast else, but ultimately they were just rocks that were too stubborn to be ground into pebbles by the wind and water. There was always something going wrong in the mountains. Carts breaking, beasts falling to their death on a treacherous pathway, eagles picking off sentries in the middle of the night, barbarian vermin always looking for a chance to steal or take slaves… Kaltag could see, however, the benefit of setting up a fort like Frostmourn in the middle of such a hostile place. Nobeast would ever want to come up and try and take it. Safe in his castle, Pepin could send out all manner of slavers and killers and never expect retaliation. His minions, like Kaltag, did all the work.

Someday, Kaltag knew he would be the best in these mountain ranges. Already Pepin had noticed his work and given him command of his own band, and bringing this full load of slaves would give him a name along with his skill. He would be able to start calling shots, giving the orders instead of taking them. He had been scrabbling for position and power ever since he was just a whelp, and his mother had impressed on him the need to claw his way through life.

Kaltag was sick to death of clawing his way along. He wanted a path to retirement, and every step he took was taking him closer to it.

Sheena however seemed to have her spirits lifted by the mountain range. As she said, there were many places to hide, and he was finding it harder and harder to keep track of her. One day she even just went off on her own and he didn't see her until she had crept up on him right outside his tent, nearly scaring his tail off.

The other slavers got a good laugh out of _that _one.

Right now they were camped near one of the first signs of real civilization they had gotten in days: a small outpost deep in the highlands created by vermin for vermin who traveled the mountain paths between here and Mossflower. Those same intimidating paths awaited them next, and Kaltag wanted his vermin well fed and rested before making the last leg of the journey. His slavers had fallen upon the small village like a plague, and the inn was full to bursting. Those who had duties to attend to were huddled together over large fires to keep away the birds and the beasts. Kaltag was always hearing rumors of strange and dark monsters in the unexplored regions, and was in no mood to see if he could find any. That and the Highland hares said to frequent these places and slit the throats of the unwary in the night, leaving only a camp of bodies stripped of clothing and valuables.

The fox was perched on a rock just outside the village, next to the shallow river that ran straight through the middle. He was casually sharpening his sword while he spoke to the leader of the camp, a tall but considerably heavy-set rat by the name of Baron Crooktail. Being lord of a tiny smattering of buildings did not a baron make, though the place had the distinction of having most of its buildings being built on the bridge that ran over the river, giving it the name of Bridgetown. Mostly it was because there was nowhere else to put their homes; it was either that or try to build on the crooked hillsides and mountains.

"This is a charming place," Kaltag remarked to Crooktail, who raised his eyebrow.

"That's what every beast who passes through here says. So did the last two caravans that came before you."

"Who was commanding them?"

"Filcher and Grakkel."

"Of course… seems everybeast knew when and where to get out of here before the wolves came. It's almost like… somebeast was expecting all this."

"Well o' course we were! Everybeast knows Pepin was the one wot knew of the wolves."

"To harass and pillage, not start a war to take over the whole country!" Kaltag retorted, looking straight at the rat now. Crooktail wouldn't budge.

"Wolves are unpredictable," he said with a shrug. "Myself, I wish we never 'ad any dealings with 'em at all. But what are we worried about? What're _you_ worried about? We wanted slaves an' we got 'em."

Kaltag sighed and sheathed his sword before hopping off the rock.

"Is _everybeast _around here that short-sighted?" he lamented expressively.

"Listen, 'Baron'… you know me, we've had dealings in the past. You know everybeast who comes down off the mountain, vermin and woodlander alike. These wolves are _up _to something. This _isn't _just a simple attack. Somebeast, somewhere, planned all this to happen, and Pepin had something to do with it! I'm not going to work for a creature who has delusions of grandeur and threatens his own kingdom by starting wars with wolves."

"Look, the most involvement I know of was that we'd be able ta' take what slaves we could. The wolves would sweep in an; do their thing an' then it all goes back to normal! It's not like we were payin' them or anything! Just worked out a little deal for both of us ta' sweep the forest an' get what we want. Just like that."

"Except it hasn't gone just like that," Kaltag answered with a shrug. "Who from Frostmourn has come through here? Besides me and the others?"

"Nobeast I know of."

"Hmm. I have a little something that would prove otherwise."

He waved to one of his captains, who had been standing nearby. "Scratnose, come here."

The rat came forward with a struggling little ball of fur in tow. Crooktail's eyes widened as they saw limbs and a face through the gloom.

"Is that a tree rat?" he asked in surprise.

"Yes," Kaltag almost purred. "And he's got some interesting information to share."

Scratnose hauled Scrut over by the leash that had been attached to him. The little rat continued to squeal and kick and chatter inanely. He had been an earsore all the way up for slave and slaver alike. It was almost as if he had a big hole in his chest that words continuously flowed from, instead of lungs that eventually ran out of breath. Scratnose kicked at him, making him squeak and curl into a ball.

"No more kicks! Scrut is good, yes? Learned many words from the better vermin! Scrut just a simple bumpkin! No more hurting me!"

"I want you to tell this nice vermin here exactly what you told me," Kaltag instructed him. "The one about what you saw before the wolves came, by the river."

Scrut glanced up at the fox, who nodded to permit him to speak. Scrut obediently launched into his tail.

"Scrut was down by the river, foraging for nice, tasty berries! Wasn't doing anything but minding his own business! Far away from tribe, berries all to myself… and I see, I see other vermin! Big vermin, like you, all shiny and cold. Fur like ice! They come, and they talk, and I go closer, crawling, crawling, listening… and they say things! Say things like… like 'land is good,' and 'they will be happy here.' I think, they are just talking about new buildings, yes? Nothing important! But they say, 'meeting time is close,' and Scrut wondered who they were meeting."

"Tell him about the insignia," Kaltag ordered. Scrut looked at him blankly.

"The _picture, _you dolt, the picture!"

"Ahh! Yes! Yes! I see, I see, on one's clothes, big and black, mountain eagle. Pretty picture! But I run when they hear me, never go back."

"The black mountain eagle is the sign of Frostmourn," Kaltag said to the Baron. "And the detail of their fur shining like ice… that is armor. Chain mail. Now tell me. If this was all supposed to be an unofficial, unpaid, and unimportant raid, why would soldiers under Pepin's service, armed, armored, and bearing his coat of arms, need to come all the way down here for a meeting?"

The Baron looked from Kaltag, to Scrut, to the river. He shook his head and gave the fox a sideways glance.

"I don't know nuthin'," he said simply. "That's the honest truth, so I says on me mother's grave! An' if you're smart, Kaltag, you'll stop askin' questions. Pepin's business is his business. We ain't here ta' ask wot's wot. We just do our jobs an' get paid. You know what they say. Curiosity killed the cat!"

"Of course," Kaltag said with a tilt of his head. "But I am far craftier than any _cat._"

"That's the problem," the Baron retorted. "You're too much of a fox, Kaltag. I'd suggest you get some rest, sell your slaves, an' take whatever reward you're given. Good night to ya."

Kaltag stared after the rat as he left, and then waved away his captain and Scrut.

"Scrut, prepare my tent before I get back."

"Yes, yes, Scrut is good. Can't kick him if he does a good job, yes!"

"You aren't gonna stay in one of the taverns, sir?" Scratnose asked as he yanked Scrut's leash to get him going.

"I don't feel like obliging the mighty Baron," the fox said with a sniff. "Besides, I want to think about a few things."

"Right. See you in the morning, sir."

Kaltag returned to his perch on the rock and lay back upon it, leaning on one elbow. He pensively tossed pebbles into the river, thinking back on how far he'd come and how far he had yet to go. Frostmourn was so close he could taste it. There, Pepin was hiding up on his oaken throne, biding his time and making his plans. Kaltag had to get up there and figure out the truth of what was going on. Wolves did not act this way wantonly. Something legendary had come out of the far northern Wasteland, and Pepin had had a paw in bringing it down here. He had to figure this out. He had to.

Abruptly he felt paws wind their way around his shoulders, but by this time he was so familiar with them he did not budge.

"Feeling lost, little tod?" Sheena whispered in his ear. "Like every beast knows something you don't? That the world is dangling secrets in front of you and you simply cannot get a hold of what's going on?"

"I can never tell if you're trying to help me or just rub my nose in something," Kaltag replied, sounding rather miffed. Sheena smiled cryptically and placed her snout snugly in the crook between his neck and shoulder.

"I am a vixen. Secrets are a part of me, Kaltag. And you, too. There are things I know you will never tell me."

"But even when you tell me something, I'm never sure if it's just another riddle." He laid his cheek on her head as she dropped her chin on his shoulder.

"Because you never feel satisfied with your life? Because you always believe that something's missing, that you haven't quite gotten what you want?"

"Because usually it _is _just another riddle."

Sheena laughed and sat up next to him, walking two of her fingers up his chest, poking him with her claws until she got to his nose, which she gave a tweak. She had never been this playful before. Something about this place, where they were going, what they were doing… she was pleased about something. Was it something he'd done, or said? He was never sure.

"Kaltag… when will you learn that sometimes life is _about _never quite having the answers? It is the questions in life that drive us. It is our failures that drive us harder to succeed next time. It is the teasing of riddles that push us to find the answers. It is our mothers whacking our paws that makes us wary of the cookie jar. Without the struggle, the rewards become pointless."

"And when will I _get _my reward?" Kaltag asked sharply, looking her straight in the eye. "I have struggled enough, I think. When I get to Pepin, I _will _have my answers. You may be comfortable with who you are, but I never was. When life is nothing _but_ the struggle, then it's all just one big circle of suffering, isn't it? At what point do my trials and tribulations become nothing but trying to break a brick wall with my head?"

Sheena stared quietly at him, showing almost complete indifference to his distress. She knew most of his former life, growing up in the harsh and filthy towns on the coasts, always worrying about plundering vermin warbands, Salamandastron hares coming to clean up pirate hideouts by putting them to the torch, and never being quite sure of who he was. Kaltag thought for a moment he actually saw true sympathy in her pale, misty eyes when he finished speaking, making him stare and let his mouth drop open. The moment quickly passed, but just as suddenly she did something that surprised him utterly.

He had just been about to keep complaining when he noticed her fingers were on the edge of his muzzle, silencing him. They then raced along the side of his snout and made him shiver terribly before moving on over the rest of his face, tracing the contours with a light, deft touch. She had touched him before (and him her) many times. But somehow this seemed… different. Somehow it was more gentle, more sincere. He could not feel any ulterior motive, any attempt to rankle him, nothing except how tantalizingly light it was on his fur while she combed through it. It was as though she were touching him simply to do just that… to feel her fingers on his face. Every brush was like an electric jolt, every bend of every strand of fur magnified by the sudden onslaught of new, strange feelings.

This was tenderness, he realized.

It was incredible.

"Poor fox," Sheena said, and Kaltag was further shocked by what he perceived to be actual pity in her tone. Not the condescending, disgusted kind he usually heard; this was real. "All of us foxes are such pitiable creatures. We want to know all we can so we can never be taken advantage of, and yet the world is too big, and we are too afraid of each other."

Her voice was hushed and wispy, a breath of air almost unable to be heard over the water of the river. It had the qualities of a seer, light and mysterious, enchanting him and forcing him to perk his ears and listen. It came to him that he was hearing the actual Sheena. The real vixen behind all the smoke and mirrors. He was entranced, feeling like he wanted to give in to the moment and fall against her, but repulsed by his own discomfort. He wasn't _supposed _to be disarmed so easily.

"Don't think I don't know the meaning of patience. I'm not here to work against you, Kaltag. But sometimes you can be as infuriating as I. I am who I am because I like it that way. I don't want or need you prying too much into the wrong places. Hunt for a needle in a haystack too fervently, and eventually you get pricked. And we can't have that, can we?"

"Why not?" Kaltag asked as one under a spell, still pressing, always pressing for answers. Even his voice had lowered to fit the mood, gentle and delicate. "What do you care? You aren't here because of me, not entirely. No vixen is that obvious."

"True," Sheena said with a rather frightening smile, and she began to fondle his ear, making the blood rush to his cheeks. He was actually blushing. She _did_ know how to play him. "Perhaps your boyish charm is simply starting to win me over."

"Sheena," Kaltag said, grasping her paw before it could distract him further in a vain attempt to stave off the fluttering feeling in his stomach. He tried to sound forceful and convicted, but he could not put any force behind his words. This moment belonged to her and he couldn't break it apart. "As long as we've been together I've never known the real you. Your past, your reasons, nothing. I never asked before because we were just traveling partners, I never thought much of it. We weren't even that much, just two foxes going in the same direction. But this war, this new… situation has thrown everything out of order. Something big is going on. And you've been acting strangely. I will not be played for a fool, Sheena, I-"

He was interrupted by her lips suddenly enveloping his own, silencing him without the slightest effort, and suddenly everything seemed to fall away into a haze. His eyelids dropped partially closed and his muscles went slack without his permission. The airy, surreal feeling giving him the impression he was floating underwater, with all the sounds similarly muted. He was suddenly much more sensitive to wherever _she _was touching him with those sleek, light paws of hers, and those places felt like they were going up in flames. He was only dimly aware of the rock they were sitting on, and the beating of his own heart. Everything seemed to be passing by so quickly, happening so fast he didn't even know what to feel, so it all came in a rush; indignant, flattered, happy, angry, and he didn't know why he felt a single one of those. He barely even noticed her pushing him down onto the rock and leaning over his inert body.

"You know what I think?" Sheena whispered, and it seemed her warm breath on the inside of his ear was the only thing that mattered. Kaltag was in too much of a daze to answer.

"You think too much," the vixen said, and suddenly she was gone. Kaltag was alone on the rock. He blinked several times to clear his head, and suddenly the real world was back like a boulder crashing into him. He sat up and caught a glimpse of her tail disappearing behind a nearby tent. Just like that she was flitting away like the wind. It felt good on the fur, but it lasted only as long as it wanted to and you could never catch it again after it left.

So he was alone again, breathing heavily and bewildered as ever. Of course she was confusing, she was a vixen. Why was it whenever she told him to slow down and stop thinking so much, he only came out of it even more confused than before? He reached up and touched his lips to make sure she really had kissed him. She hadn't come at him like that since after he killed Trosk back in the Greymarch. At least that time she had given him a moment to recover and reciprocate, but now…

"What, that's _it?" _he called into the gathering gloom.

--

A/N: Yes, Kaltag, that is indeed it. The poor guy is probably going to go insane. Everyone seems to be saying things that only halfway make sense, and his own girlfriend seems to be not his girlfriend anymore. If she ever was in the first place.

So things are going from bad to worse all around and I haven't even gotten to the major part of the story yet. It's barely chapter twenty and I'm already revealing so many plot points! Ahh! Am I going too fast? I also apologize if anyone was taken aback by the abrupt change from talking to a make-out session in fast forward. But, that's just how Sheena rolls. She's feisty and mysterious, but not just because she's a beautiful vixen, oh no. There are plans here, there, everywhere, and we're going to jump into them headfirst.

This story is about to be kicked into high gear people! Hold on!


	20. Juggernaut

The White Fords were so named because of the common occurrence of usually rare White Water Lilies along the banks of the Donn River that, with its tributaries that drained into the various marshlands and lakes near Stillport, marked the natural boundary of the Greymarch forest. This river started in the mountains to the west and flowed south and east until it joined its sister waterways, making it a lifeline to many farms and communes along the breadth of its shores. The end result was that the Donn River was an important part of the lives of those in the North, and the place that coalition army was going to make its defense against the invading wolf hordes. Finnar stood at the top of a knoll with Commander Brannagh, his sword stuck tip down in the ground, paws resting on the pommel. He found it strange that such a peaceful place was to be the chosen site for so much bloodshed. The many waterways made this place extremely fertile, allowing many small farms and villages to spring up. All of them had been abandoned now, stripped bare by their former occupants and soldiers looking for extra supplies. Such a beautiful country, Finnar mused, that was about to be sullied by so much death.

Looking out over the rest of the army that was still preparing fortifications for the defense, throwing up hiding spots out of the very forest itself, Finnar came to realize that he could understand why some creatures admired war and its many forms.

War, in spite of its terrible machinations and endless thirst for life, was one of the ways in which creatures were brought together like never before. To turn the minds of an entire town, even an entire country to a single goal of self-defense… only war could do something like that. He had seen both sides of war, from the valiant and glorious to the irredeemably malevolent. He had fought under and alongside heroes and madbeasts, against worthy opponents and creatures seemingly possessed by the fury of Hellgates. He often wondered why he could look back on this storied life and be so calm about it; he had seen other beasts break under the strain. But then, learning through experience was the best way to live, and he had a lot of experience. He believed it was this wealth of wisdom that let him stay so calm, while the others had to busy themselves with their menial tasks of building and talking.

All of these soldiers knew only the battle they were fighting; their minds bent towards this single event in their lives. For many of them this would be their last and only adventure. Working and talking was a way to distract themselves from the fear of this dark fate, the gnawing inevitability of their approaching enemy.

The wolf army had been spotted advancing quickly on the fords, thirsty for their blood. In two days, the scouts calculated, they'd be upon them. It was here the war would be decided, when the wolves would clash with a full army dug into an easily defensible position. It was here they'd get a full gauge of the strength of their enemies.

"We have only two thousand to defend these shores and the lands beyond," Brannagh noted. "Not a particularly imposing force."

"It'll do," Finnar replied. "It must."

"Aye, but that's the rub, isn't it? It must. It must, but _will _it?"

"The best general wins the battle before he fights it," Finnar commented with a sage nod. "But these soldiers fight well, we both know that. We can hold them here. The Fords are the only places the rivers can be easily traversed, and with run-off from the mountains at this time of year, not trying to take them would be foolish. The only other easy way south is to swing out miles around to the east and come down the Elver River."

"And they _want _to fight us," Brannagh said. "They'll come here because we're here. They don't just want to beat us. They want to smash us."

"Then the only option is to kill them all, before they get the chance," Finnar said, and Brannagh assented with a deep grunt. "I need to make some last minute checks of the defenses. Come by my tent later, we're to have an officer's mess."

"Aye," Finnar answered, and the two parted ways. Finnar went down to the camp where Lord Hoster's troops were assembled. The Lord himself was in the fort, but nobeast was about to accuse him of cowardice. He had personally led several raids in defense of his lands against the barbarian vermin in the western mountains. But right now he was needed elsewhere, and his commanders held considerable sway with the troops.

The tall otter walked among the troops and listened to their conversations in passing, watching and waiting for a place he was needed, somewhere he could help. He was a wanderer, after all, and his paws always itched to do something, even if it was just to hold his sword and let the familiar weight of his well-forged steel strain against his muscles.

The soldiers around him seemed a strange mixture. There were those slight few who had real experience with war, who had done more than stand night guard and drill in the muster fields. They polished their weapons and watched everything with a weathered, critical eye, ever watchful for the enemy, and their words were usually boisterous, terse, and commanding. The great majority were of a more common stock, creatures who had rarely wielded a weapon with the intent to kill, who had volunteered and gone on a summer campaign against a small tribe of marauding vermin that were easily scattered, or stood on a wall for hours on end. But no real wars, no real power behind their boasting and singing, just a lot of enthusiasm. Finnar usually found them in large groups, talking with each other of home and family and how they hoped things would go back to normal when this was all over.

Most discomfiting where the ones who had little experience in war, killing, or even just marching. There was a disturbingly large amount of these, the ones who spoke quickly and quietly and looked to the older creatures for guidance, who were lost without an officer to bark at them and tell them what to do. Finnar remembered a great otter leader he had met during his travels, who had said that it was vital to have a few experienced beasts for every large number of those who might flee. Anybeast would stand firm if they had an example to follow. Finnar planned on being one of those braver few.

He spent most of the day wandering between the tents, lending encouragement to those who needed it. There were a frightening number of creatures who had never even wielded a weapon in anger, let alone killed somebeast. The burly otter found himself repeating many of his aphorisms and words of wisdom that day to the same anxious, tired faces, the same jittery, twitching whiskers. Recruits did not have to be young in body or in heart, but battle had a strange effect of being frightening for almost anybeast. Fighting the indifferent, chaotic and especially familiar elements and stubborn crops as a farmer was one thing. Fighting a slavering monster that was actually _trying_ to kill you, that had its own reasons and was bending its will to your destruction… well, that was something else entirely.

Finnar had seen many creatures die, and they had died by his paws. He knew that there was nothing glorious or fun about it, nothing that should be sugarcoated. The first few times were the worst, when he had seen the mingled bodies of vermin and woodlanders slowly dying in piles of each others' blood spilled insides and the shock was still fresh in his mind. He had known deep down from those traumatizing moments that war was never a good thing, even though he had still tried to convince himself it was. It had been a far cry from the old days, when he was still young and impetuous with fire and grit, eager to slay a few vermin warlords in the name of peace and justice. Eventually, the horror of it all caught up with him. He had tried to shut it out, ignore the dead after battle, and take comfort in the fact that many of his first battles had been easy, with no close friends dead. Eventually, his mind had changed. Unfortunately, that didn't take away the need for it to be fought every now and again, and in spite of everything, in spite of all the pain he had suffered and the things he used to be known for, he knew that he would not, could not abandon his duty to preserving whatever lives he could.

It was at the officer's meeting that Finnar found himself later that evening, looking out over the battle plans that had been drawn up on the long table before them. Commander Brannagh sighed as he looked at the assembled captains and sergeants.

"All right, here we go again," he said, and laid out the plans.

"The Fords stretch for a few miles, but are only easily passable in a few places… namely up at the eastern end, here. Now we can expect the wolves to attempt to swing around us to the western end, where it's harder and sparser, but we have fewer troops stationed there. Commander Suttner has taken five hundred to hold the western end of the fords… the rest of us will remain here and fight them head-on. We have noticed a pattern in their attacks… they always go for the places where our troops were concentrated the most. Where we gathered, they attacked, swiftly and without warning, in great numbers. So it stands to reason that here, where the greatest number of our troops are, we will be hit the hardest."

"Are we sure that only two thousand will hold back the entire army?" a one-eyed mouse asked.

"No, we aren't. We judge the enemy coming towards us to be around six thousand in number… but that's just a guess, and we haven't met their full army yet. Collectively we should be able to gather eight to ten thousand across all the North, but that's assuming they all come, and if all of them are actually able to march and fight, which I doubt. And with the vermin having all but abandoned us, or refusing to fight..."

"We ought to just conscript whatever we can find," sneered one grey-spiked hedgehog. "They owe us for not clubbin' 'em all when we _first _came here. Their fellows in the south 'ave even turned to brigandage against us."

"We'd just give them reason to grow even more hostile," Finnar warned. "They haven't any reason to unite with us in their mind. Forcing those who have remained into our armies will only cause dissent and mutiny."

"Then we're just going to sit back and take whatever they throw at us?" the one-eyed mouse asked.

"You said it yourself," Finnar answered for Brannagh. "Two thousand is barely enough to hold these fords, let alone make an expedition into enemy territory. The wolves are reckless and headstrong. They will come at us head-on to test our strength. Sitting back and letting them come to us is the best we can do right now… if the North united it would be able to strike back."

"But for whatever reason it has not," Brannagh said with a note of distaste. "So we make do with what we have. Now then-"

He was interrupted by the sound of a horn blowing nearby. All the beasts in the tent hurried outside to get a good look at the commotion, and were pleasantly surprised by the procession that was now entering the camp.

Khunig Swiftwake, dressed like a normal woodlander save for the small crown atop his head and the purple sash around his shoulders, was leading a column of otter warriors, all armed to the teeth and many wearing armor of chain mail and splinted iron. The soldiers gathered around the incoming army, looking in awe at the readily equipped and flint-eyed fighters that the Khunig of the northern otter tribes brought with him. Commander Brannagh and the others greeted the otter king once he had made his way into the camp.

"Your lordship!" Brannagh said as he and all those with him bowed deeply. "Your presence here is a bit… premature."

"I wanted ta' give the fighters 'ere a bit of a good surprise," Swiftwake answered. "Figured it'd be good for morale, aye? I've brought five hundred of my best warriors, chosen fighters and tribe leaders all."

"You're most welcome, your lordship," the Commander said as he straightened back up. "We've been hoping for more numbers to shore up our defense!"

"Well, you've got it now," Swiftwake exclaimed happily. "Your liege is Lord Hoster; I respectfully request command of the defense be turned over ta' me in lieu of his absence."

"Granted, gladly," Commander Brannagh said with another bow. It was mostly a formality. Swiftwake knew how to fight a war, and nobeast would tell him that he couldn't command even though he was the highest ranking creature in half the North. But there was no reason to worry; he knew more than to overstep his authority and throw around Hoster's troops like so much fodder.

"Excellent," the otter king remarked. "I'll look over your battle plans, but I've faith they're sound. When can we expect the enemy?"

"Tomorrow afternoon at the earliest, your highness. Forgive me for asking, but… are there any more coming?"

"Lord Hoster promised the scouts and skirmishers he's had fightin' the wolves since day one would be arrivin' back from the hinterlands, but… we've 'ad disturbin' reports of crows an' other large birds workin' with the wolves to disrupt communications, slayin' runners in the woods. We 'aven't gotten word from 'em for a while yet, if they got caught by the wolves or made their way 'cross the river. They're close, if they're alive."

Swiftwake turned his soldiers. "Set up camp! We'll be joining the front lines soon, mateys! Get some food an' rest. You'll need it for a long day of bloody murder!"

There was a loud, lusty roar from all the nearby otters, and they split up to find a place to settle in for the night before being deployed to the front. Swiftwake turned to Finnar, to the other otter's surprise.

"You must be the knight, Sir Finnar," Swiftwake said. Finnar bowed low.

"Your lordship. It's an honor to finally meet you. I must confess I had no idea you would know my name."

"Rumors fly thick an' fast, matey. Far back as Brightriver I 'eard stories from among the refugees about one exceptional otter who saved whole caravans single-pawed."

"Well, they exaggerate." Finnar smiled. "I had my shrew page helping most of the time."

"Ha ha ha!" Swiftwake barked, and clapped the knight on the shoulder. "One with your singular skill an' reputation'll be most welcome 'ere, mate! Even with the other stories about you, I 'ave ta' say it'll be an honor ta' have you fightin' alongside us. I'm sure the rest o' the lords would agree, had they the spine ta' be 'ere!"

Finnar's expression was flat and direct as he shook his head. "No. Not all of you. I had my reasons for not coming to you all directly, your lordship."

"Naw, I don't blame you. I'd rather 'ave been up at the front myself, were I could do some good. 'Tis a pleasure ta' be here now."

Finnar let himself fall behind as the Khunig continued on, watching him in silence.

"A pleasure," he reflected, staring off into the distance. He shook his head and continued on.

"Wish I was young enough to think of war as a pleasure again."

------------

Finnar stared out through the cover of leaves at the water that bustled past, bubbling and foaming over the smooth river stones in the ford. The sun was out and the air felt thick and wet and lazy, heavy with clinging precipitation. A light drizzle had caused a fog to develop on the both banks, surrounding the army, and Finnar knew that might be a problem. It would conceal both armies from each other, and though archers would have trouble picking out targets, it meant neither side would be able to easily tell the forces of the other. Hopefully, that would make the wolves more cautious. Or it could bolster their confidence and convince them to throw the weight of their army against the defenses, realizing it would be hard for the woodlanders to coordinate and send soldiers to this place or that.

All in all, Finnar expected it to be extremely ugly.

He looked up and down the bank. It was quiet, peaceful. A few birds, oblivious for whatever reason to the bloodshed that was about to occur, sung in the treetops. It would be good for morale to hear such songs. A final appreciation of something beautiful before the journey to Dark Forest.

And then he heard it. The sound that had chilled woodlander and vermin hearts alike in the dark seasons before the North had been civilized. The sound that inspired legends, nightmares, and demonic myths. It was a sound of fear, of bloodlust, of hunger and piercing, ominous knowledge that something was now hunting them.

It was the howl of a wolf.

The terrible noise hovered on the air, its singer having a good set of lungs. It was soon joined by another, and another, deep, low, and strident. The howl of the hunt, of war and death and lengthening shadows, hundreds of voices calling out for blood, filling the air and letting the whole army know that battle had arrived. The wolves had started their march and were now a united, terrible force. Their noise echoed up and down the banks, banging on Finnar's eardrums, reverberating through the whole forest. All the howls had coalesced into one frightening chorus of fury. The message behind it was unmistakable.

_We're coming for you._

Nearby, a mouse began to scuttle out of cover, ready to bolt… but a squirrel nearby rested his bow on his fretful comrade's shoulder, and nodded to the banks. The mouse returned to his original position with a gulp.

Abruptly, the noise ceased, and there was nothing save the gurgling river as it swept over the rocks. Finnar's grip tightened on his bow. All they had to do now was wait. He narrowed his eyes and watched the river bank, letting his mind focus. Time stretched out interminably as they waited for a sign of their foe.

And there! A bush suddenly disturbed, a branch swaying where there was no wind. The sound of marching footpaws, the distant clank of metal on metal, the sounds that made the heart beat faster and the eyes widen. Through the fog, hulking shadowy shapes moved, and marched. In the early morning sunlight, Finnar thought he caught the glimpse of a few armored bodies. Looted chainmail from brave defender's corpses, no doubt.

The wolves did not seem worried about staying under cover in the trees. They wanted a proper battle, and moved with a self-confident assurance as though the woodlander army in front of them didn't even exist. But they did not charge blindly and stupidly into the water, ready to kill. They halted just at the treeline, gathering and congregating in large mobs, milling about as they found their proper positions. Finnar raised an eyebrow, watching them closely.

Then a new noise came. A sudden assault on the ears. _Bang! _And then it came again, and again, and Finnar realized the wolves were beating on their shields. The calamitous noise carried easily to the woodlander side of the river. Growls and hoots and jeers soon accompanied it, curses at the woodlanders in foreign, guttural tongues, until it all mixed together into one frightening roar. The woodlanders looked on in silence, licking dry lips and making peace with the possibility of death. Not a muscle twitched along the entire line. Finnar took a deep breath, waiting for the command to fire. It had to come soon now. If they shot too early, they would not draw the wolves into the killing field proper. Too late, and the wolves would be upon them before the demoralizing effect of a hail of arrows blunted their charge.

But the wolves beat them to it. Over the din, Finnar's ears perked as they caught a loud hissing noise, quickly drawing closer, and shadowy darts zipping through the trees…

He dodged behind his tree just in time, listening to the arrows thudding into the ground all around them. The wolves were undoubtedly more tactical than he gave them credit for. Taking the initiative like that, surprising the woodlanders by shaking them with a skirmish attack before the main charge was not like them… obviously their leader, or some general, was quite the unorthodox warrior for a wolf. A few screams here and there said the arrows had found marks among the woodlanders. Finnar chanced a glance around his tree trunk once more. The wolves would not wait for a return volley, and immediately after their archers had fired whole columns of grey fur and flashing iron came charging down the banks to the river.

At last the call was sounded.

"Archers! Ready bows!"

Finnar spun out from behind cover, and hauled back on the bowstring. His powerful muscles bent the bow back in one smooth, fluid motion, making it creak and groan with the sudden strain, but the firm elm body held steady.

"Loose!"

With a mighty, snapping _twang!_ Finnar's arrow went zipping into the wolf horde, as did hundreds of others. All at once, across the fords, wolves began falling, tripping and stumbling over each other in their haste to get across the river, but on and on they came, charging over the bodies of their fellows. Finnar knew they had the numbers to absorb such casualties, and their warriors would gladly give their lives no matter how senseless the slaughter. For every one he had slain, two more simply charged up to take its place. They seemed to live for battle, ignoring all other fears and desires in their mad desire to get into the thick of their enemies.

And now he was firing at will, precise and automatic. One at a time he drew an arrow and sent another plunging into some wolf's leg or chest or arm. Return fire from the wolf ranks did not faze him in the slightest. He did not even flinch as a squirrel went down beside him with an arrow in the thigh, letting a surgeon dash up and tend to him. The wolves splashed into the river, growling and snarling, knowing if a good number of them could make it across, they could get a foothold and secure a safe corridor for more to come.

Finnar had time to fire at least five more arrows before the wolves had come to the opposite bank. It was a terrible, disheartening sight to see as the wolf army made headway.

Wolves staggered forward under the withering attack, shields held high. The otter knight could even see some still hurtling towards the woodlanders with arrows jutting from their very limbs. Bodies were quickly clogging the river up and down the length of the fords. But the volume of arrows was not enough. The wolves would eventually make it across, as they were doing now. Soon, too soon to even think, it would come time for all beasts to don sword and shield and counterattack. But not quite yet. Not until the moment was exactly right.

Another arrow, and this time Finnar could see his target go down, clutching at the thin shaft protruding from his throat. A fine hit. He could see blood now, trickling down from injuries sustained, the water of the White Fords beginning to be stained crimson. In spite of everything the colossal wolf force shrugged off the woodlander arrows and barreled towards their lines. Almost comically one impatient wolf even met his end by slipping on a moss covered rock and dashing his head on the rest. Such was the fickle nature of war.

"Swords! _Spears!" _Commander Brannagh shouted from somewhere up the line. Finnar dropped his bow and arrows and quickly kicked up a spear, as did several others around him. They rose up from their dug in spot on a hillock overlooking the ford banks. Finnar noticed the mouse on his right already getting ready to throw.

"Wait!" he bellowed, giving those around him pause even as the order to attack came. From afar he could hear a cacophony of shouts and screams as woodlanders desperately threw themselves at the wolves to push them back. Very soon the entire army would be engaged. Thankfully, the river was quite high, and the fords would funnel most of the wolves' numbers into manageable chunks.

He turned back to his section of the river and watched as the wolves, now in sight of their prey, increased their speed, tearing through the undergrowth, clawing up mud embankments and pounding along the forest path leading to the ford. A whole mob of slavering monsters fit for a night terror, baleful eyes burning with the blood fever, broad chests panting and heaving with a wild, furious desire; the chance to kill for the wolves was as water to a parched desert wanderer.

At last they were close enough for the knight's satisfaction.

"_Now!"_

Heavy spears came hurtling out of the woods, mixed with arrows, javelins, sling rocks, and anything else that could be thrown. The concentrated volley obliterated the vanguard of the wolf charge, giving the woodlanders a precious few seconds to prepare for their attack. Finnar smiled grimly as he watched wolves literally impaled by shafts, spears, and stones collapsing to the ground. Now was the time for iron will and pitiless resolve. He drew his sword, stood up and hefted his shield. The otter captain in charge of some of Khunig Swiftwake's elite, stationed just below the crest of Finnar's little hillock, had been waiting for this moment. He and thirty of Swiftwake's otters would lead the charge into the wolves, shocking them with their heavy armor and broad swords. Finnar took a single moment to look around him, at the grim, set faces, to the wolves coursing through the river and up the bank towards them. He raised his sword and filled his lungs with the bracing, cold air of the North, his broad chest swelling with anticipation, and let loose with a battle cry that would unleash their fury.

"For the Northlands! _FAUGH A BALLAUGH!"_

He and the woodlanders streamed forward to meet the wolves just as the next wave crossed the river. He had timed the charge perfectly. There was not nearly enough time for the wolves to get organized, and the woodlanders were still covered by the trees enough to prevent a massacre by wolf arrows.

The first wolf he came to was still struggling with his heavy, muddy, wet furs. He didn't even have time to see Finnar's sword smash into his skull, bearing him to the ground. Finnar kept running and roared loudly as he bashed his shield into the chest of the next warrior, knocking the wind from him and shoving the towering creature into the dirt. The knight's sword slid into his stomach soon after. A crash of metal filled his ears as Swiftwake's otters met the wolves alongside him, literally bashing aside any resistance along the way. Woodlanders bellowed family slogans as they brought up the rear. The tight, choked quarters of the heavily wooded riverbank, along with the large numbers of scattered enemies, quickly turned the battle into a bloodbath. Finnar couldn't even turn around without nearly knocking into some other creature, friend or foe. The armored otters of Swiftwake remained together, tramping forward in formation, an unstoppable block of skill and death, carving through the scattered wolves that came to them, the woodlanders mopping up in their wake. Slowly but surely they hacked their way to the riverbank. Yet still, under the arrows and screams and blood, the wolves came, spending bodies and making the woodlanders use their arrows, feeling the strain of a numerically superior foe.

The otter knight's body was crafted for war, and he put it through its paces now. Standing at the front of the woodlander formation, a large triangle with the armored otters providing the driving tip, his muscular arms swung sword and shield with deadly speed and accuracy. He knocked away an axe and plunged his blade into the small of his opponent's back, kicking the wolf away and spinning to huddle down under a particularly vicious blow from a long, two-pawed sword that more resembled an oversized cleaver. Finnar rose up, shoving forward with all the power he could muster in his strong, athletic legs, and jabbed once into the wolf's stomach before slashing open the throat, spinning around again to break a wolf's nose with the boss of his shield. Every action he took brought him closer to killing somebeast else. It was a violent maelstrom of close-up, hazy combat. Blood was already seeping into his fur, dotting his chainmail armor and splattering all over his sword and shield. Even the fog seemed to have taken on a crimson tinge.

But he could not stop, _would_ not stop. As long as wolves came, then he would slay them. He neatly sidestepped an axe sweeping towards him. The wolf holding it stumbled forward as the blade was buried in the dirt, and Finnar's knee cracked into his face, followed by the blade of a sword. His sword was knocked away the next instant by another tattooed wolf. He dug his claws into his attacker's throat and raked downwards, opening large gashes in the soft flesh. In one sweeping motion the axe of the first fallen wolf was in his paw, and then in the brain of the second. He spun about and drove the head of the axe into the stomach of another wolf, then ripped it out and down again in a mighty overhead swing. The helmet the wolf had been wearing cracked and failed under the onslaught. Leaving the axe firmly entrenched in its new home, he snatched his sword and went right back to killing. Foe after foe fell under his relentless attack, and even among Swiftwake's otters he stood tall and proud, living up to the violent heritage of his knightly brethren. A true warrior, inspiring and without peer in the thick of battle, a rock on which the wolves broke and flowed to either side. An obvious target for any wolf seeking glory.

And then, it stopped, at least for the moment. Wolves were still attacking up and down the river, but not with as much force. The flow of enemies had stopped, even if arrows continued to zip back and forth dangerously. Finnar and his forces pulled farther back into the woods to take cover, dragging their wounded back with them. There were too many bodies to count right now. To a newcomer the scene was horrific, severed and tangled limbs scattered all about, blood running down in rivulets to the river. Finnar had seen it all before.

Above the terrible ruckus of battle, somehow Finnar caught the sound of a horn being blown. That was the signal of Khunig Swiftwake. Soon after a squirrel messenger came hurtling towards them all. He was completely free of blood, a stark contrast to the sweaty, shocked, and blood-soaked soldiers in front of him.

"A major assault on Swiftwake's position is coming! Aid is requested at the eastern ford!"

"Calm down, friend. It could just be a diversion," Finnar said quickly, and turned to the otter captain in charge of the elite soldiers. "Remain here. You know what to do if the wolves come again. I'm going thataway."

The other otter nodded, and Finnar went charging into the woods. If the Khunig was hard-pressed he had to go help himself, if not send somebeast else. Others watched him go by with astonished expressions. He did look a fearsome sight. Blood was all over his limbs and chest, and his sword and shield were similarly sullied, yet he had next to no wounds of his own to speak of, and their hearts were gladdened that they had such an indomitable warrior in their ranks. Fresh from a fight and he was only breathing hard! It was well that he had the skill of so many beasts, as they needed bodies at every spot the wolves came to. But he knew they couldn't keep this up forever.

The sound of weapons beating on shields and a rippling wave of war cries spurred him on, racing to head off the next attack and lend what support he could. His stormy eyes flashed with life youth once gave him, now duty provided, as he charged towards the sound of Swiftwake's deep voice rallying his soldiers.

"To arms! To arms, everybeast! They're comin' again! Rally ta' me, O otters! Soldiers of the North, they come again!"

-------

Guthrin had seen the disastrous first attack on the fords from his position higher up on a hill, bow and arrows in paw. He had declined giving his pack the honor of being in the first wave, knowing that they would all be massacred. The first soldiers into a battle were often either the most expendable, or the most likely to be afflicted by blood fever. Guthrin was neither, and neither were his packmates. Since Cadogan, he had promised himself that he wouldn't neglect their well-being again. He still didn't know what he would say to the young wolf's father; Cadogan had been an only son. Instead of dying in battle like this, where there would at least be the comfort he had died bravely and well, he had been slain by an assassin.

He shook his head. No sense thinking about it now. They had all known this wouldn't be as easy as the Dragon Prince promised.

But what, he imagined, could be the point of this exercise?

Of course, there were also the leaders of the battle to consider. The Woodshadow and the Gatestorm themselves had come to this place, eager to be the first to breach woodlander lines and begin the great invasion of the south, though Guthrin had not seen either of them. If the Woodshadow was in command, this folly might be part of some incomprehensible strategy the tactician had thought up before the campaign even started.

If the Gatestorm showed up on the battlefield, Guthrin feared for his life. He had only heard tales of that monster, and none of them failed to send a shiver down his spine. Most of the other wolves seemed perfectly fine to have such legendary warriors on their side, but Guthrin could not help but wonder about whether this whole situation was flirting with disaster. Perhaps he really was growing soft, too attached to hearth and home, looking for excuses not to fight too dangerously. Had this been a regular warband, his revenge for Cadogan would have long since been satisfied. Somehow he felt as though all of their kind were simply being swept along, towards a fate none of them could control or comprehend.

Whatever the Dragon Prince truly was, it did not help Guthrin sleep at night.

"Pack leader, are you all right?"

Guthrin turned to face Bashestur. Conversation was a welcome distraction from the sight and sound of his fellow wolves dying not too far.

"I'm fine. The battle does not concern me. Only what its purpose could be."

"Its purpose is to kill our enemies." Bashester shrugged. "Why worry, pack leader? We have done well so far. Do not let the sight of a few wolf bodies deter you. Is not the Dragon Prince the one the prophecies foretold? The omens were right, and surely this success means the gods have blessed us."

"I wish I had your faith, Bashestur," Guthrin murmured. "But my mind refuses to quiet itself."

"We trust our leaders because destiny has put them there."

"… I suppose you are right. It seems our time will come soon to be put forward. I am eager for battle to help my mind let go of these doubts."

"We will follow you, pack leader."

Another howl from a nearby Battle Captain showed that the time had come. Guthrin hefted his shield and turned to his fellow packmates.

"Brothers! We go to battle once again. This will not be the last time! But this is the first time we will fight these woodlanders in a proper battle. They hold the high ground. They hold the land that was stolen from us in seasons past! But we will not let that daunt us! Remember your homes, your loves, your ancestors. Make sure they are not ashamed today!"

They growled and snapped their jaws, banging and biting their shields as they prepared their minds for battle. As a low battle chant was taken up behind him, Guthrin led the advance down to the riverbank, where the next wave was preparing for the assault. This one held more experienced warriors, ones who had their own armor, or scavenged it from the dead woodlanders. Now that the enemy's nose had been bloodied they would step up their assault.

He strode down the path to the fords, surrounded by hundreds of other wolves ready for combat. Closer they came, and Guthrin could see a large concentration of woodlanders milling about on the other side, the glint of sunlight on mail. The fog was starting to lift now, and both sides would have to do something decisive or this would turn into a bloody slugging match.

Of course, that kind of chaotic single combat was what wolves excelled at, so Guthrin was not overly worried. It was not until they broke from cover of the trees and had to raise their shields to block the hailstorm of arrows that he started to get a little anxious. He took the advance step by step, and then broke into a run with the rest of them, his powerful leg muscles churning up the blood choked mud beneath his footpaws. If they could just get across the river before too many were lost, then they stood a chance of breaking through the woodlander lines by sheer weight of numbers.

-----

Finnar fought alongside Khunig Swiftwake with the furor that a knight in battle should have. He had arrived late to the fight involving the otterking, and now the entire battle was turning into a slow, grinding contest of attrition. The wolves had not just attacked in one place, but a dozen at once, all in one area of the fords, attempting to shove the woodlander army out of the way. Up and down the line a desperate battle was being waged, and even reserves were being called up from more distant parts of the ford. This drawn out fight was quickly turning into the high watermark. The first to break here would gain the momentum to win the rest of the engagement and reclaim the fords.

As things stood, Finnar was just looking to keep his head from being hacked off.

Wolves came on in droves. The two mighty otters stood in a knot of their own, defending their king from all-comers, even as the wolves pressed in hard. Finnar's sword spun and twirled like a bloody whirlwind, while Khunig Swiftwake swung an axe with lethal efficiency. The water swirled red around them, and Finnar noticed that the otterking had a large wound on his forearm. The king had impetuously driven him and his soldiers forward into the ford itself, and out here in the open there was nothing but swords and spears and axes. Neither side would dare fire massed volleys of arrows into packed rows of their own troops.

"They're pushing hard this time!" he shouted over the din. Swiftwake only grunted in agreement before a wolf leaped upon his shield. The tall, burly otter gave a roar and heaved with his whole body, and shoved the canine into the water. One of his otters came and finished it off before moving on to the next.

"We must pull back to the riverbank!" Finnar yelled as he bumped shoulders with Swiftwake. "Form a shield wall! This open fighting will only give them the advantage!"

"I'll not withdraw when we're bein' pressed so hard!" Swiftwake replied. "If we give an inch they'll push us all the way back to the grasslands!"

"If we don't withdraw they'll grind us to mush!" Finnar retorted as he took an axe blow to his shield and stabbed the attacker in the stomach before drawing back his sword in one swift, full movement. Abruptly a wolf thought dead in the water reached up and snatched Finnar's outer padded tunic, about to stab upwards with a long dagger. Swiftwake spun around and broke the wolf's paw with a swing of his axe, then broke his neck with a brutal stomp to the throat, leaving the wolf to flounder and suffocate in the shallow water.

"We _can _hold them here," he growled. "We have to!"

Finnar was about to respond, when from the opposite bank he saw something horrifying coming. Swiftwake himself was given pause. There was a moment of breathtaking silence as the woodlanders watched, and then the fury of Hellgates itself broke on them.

-----

Guthrin hurtled across the water towards the clump of woodlanders with the battle fury filling his senses. Everything seemed much more real, stark, more alive. Sounds contrasted even more greatly with each other. He was aware of everything. The stink of blood and bodily fluids, the smell of fear mingling with the scent of raw flesh exposed to the wind. And behind it all was the delicate whiff of river flowers.

The knot of armored otters protected a particularly tall and buff specimen of their kind, obviously a leader of some sort with the tight ring of jewelry around his head, standing next to who else but the great warrior he had seen in the woods. Two major targets in one spot. He and his packmates pushed forward over the ford even as stray arrows menaced them. With the wolves attacking in so many places at once, at least one attack was bound to break through. But here, he would do his best to find glory for himself. He charged through the water with the rest of his packmates, all of them looking to engage the armored otters and so fight the toughest warriors and gain the greatest honor.

Guthrin noticed them watching something coming up behind them, when he heard a rumbling growl, like a volcano preparing to explode. There was a victorious howl from the wolf lines. Something had come that was distracting the woodlanders, but what?

He was still pondering when something abruptly and rudely bowled him over, knocking him aside and into the water. He looked up to see a blur of gray fur towering over him, the flash of a giant poleaxe in two paws that looked like rocks, a mass of muscle and the sight of smoke and cinders billowing from a terrifying face that resembled some possessed wolverine rather than a wolf many feet above him. The other creature pounded towards the woodlander lines with wild abandon, bellowing with rage and fury and shouting ancient curses at the top of his voluminous lungs. The mere glimpse Guthrin got of his tree-like limbs, that hideous, scarred maw curled back in a perpetual snarl, the scent of charred flesh and innocent blood soaked into evil fur, the sheer _feeling _of judgmental, all out fury that emanated from the massive wolf struck fear and admiration into his heart. Here a true fighter had come. The god of war himself had sent his avatar to do battle, and everything that stood in his path would face nothing but ruin.

He scrambled backwards through the water, eager to be away from the ensuing carnage. The Gatestorm had come to unleash his rage.

------

In the opening moments of the battle, Finnar had only stood staring in slight shock with the other woodlanders at their latest foe. Even for a wolf, the creature was massive, like he had badger or wolverine blood in him. There wasn't a creature alive that Finnar believed could reach that size and still be considered normal. His muscles alone were mythical, though they had to be huge to carry such a massive frame, and support the ridiculous number of weapons lashed to his huge body. Draped in bright red clothing, smoke billowed and embers glowed from an uncertain source all over the wolf's body. The air around him shimmered with the heat, surreal and disorienting, turning the already terrifying beast into some kind of living nightmare not quite set in the natural world, a burning demon of rage and death, uttering curses and war chants in the wolves' guttural tongue, made even more terrifying for the deep, resonating voice he spoke with, like a cave that led to the deepest pits of the earth had gained a mouth to speak with. On his broad, barrel chest rested a single plate of armor, a shirt of chain mail supporting it with little else. On the armor plate was the insignia of a charnel, black dragon with its wings spread wide.

Perhaps the worst part was his face. His head was mostly covered by a helm the shape of some unknown, mythological beast, his bulging neck also swathed in chain mail, though Finnar had to doubt this beast even needed armor. The twisted, sneering helmet was like an amalgamation of every nightmarish creature of legend, the ears shaped into reptilian fans.

And then suddenly he was upon them, his roar like a primal shake of the earth. The massive creature fell on the woodlander lines like a giant out of some forgotten time, a god of war in his own right. With one mighty swing of the poleaxe, three otters were smote down, and Finnar felt the disturbance of the air from the massive axe head as he stumbled backwards, falling into the water.

The burning monstrosity above him laughed as he saw how his enemies cowered before him, an evil, malevolent, joyful sound.

"_Come!" _he bellowed with a wave of a paw that could crush the skull of anybeast in both armies.

"Show me your spirit! I want to _break it!"_

"Fall back!" Finnar yelled aloud as he charged for the riverbank. There was no way they could fight that beast paw-to-paw.

"War becomes me!" the wolf-monster snarled as if in reply, and brought his giant weapon down on the head of an unfortunate mouse, all but cleaving him in two with brute force. Two arrows thudded into his hide, but he only laughed and continued bulling his way forward, smashing aside any resistance with wide, sweeping attacks. Finnar and Swiftwake staggered back out of range. The wolf was soon in complete control of the ford, having driven back or slain anything that got in his way, laughing manically as he cut down anybeast who approached. Behind him, his fellow canines cheered him on.

"Spread out!" Swiftwake bellowed to his wavering soldiers. "Javelins! Slings! Bring that thing down! _Archers!"_

"I will rip you apart!" the giant bellowed as he charged directly at the king. "Fight me with honor!"

"Protect the Khunig!" several otters shouted as they clustered in front of Swiftwake, who snatched up a javelin and prepared to throw it.

"No! Stand apart!" he shouted. "Get in close! Use your spears! Forward! Have no fear!"

They advanced quickly, as Finnar waved for archers to turn their fire on the beast. But with the king so close…

Things got worse just then as a howl of victory reached his ears. Farther down the bank, wolves had gained the shore and were trying to push forward, and troops were being allocated to bolster the defense. For a moment, he was frozen with indecision, and then turned back to Swiftwake. He couldn't abandon him to fight that monstrosity alone. Already wolves were working their way around the melee, trying to encircle the otterking and take attention from their leader. That fool had put himself too far forward! If he was lost they'd risk a rout!

He attacked in a fury, closing the distance again between himself and the giant, who was making short work of Swiftwake's elite guard. The Khunig hurled a javelin at the beast, which clanged off the massive breastplate.

The burning wolf swept forward with his poleaxe, knocking aside a brave otter who stood between himself and Swiftwake. The tall otter snatched up a fallen spear and stood before the monster, defying him with a low growl.

"Formidable!" the giant laughed at this display of bravery. _"Futile!"_

Commander Brannagh's voice now belted out over the mess, bringing more soldiers to help just as more wolves encircled their giant to press the attack. "Archers, fire! Spearbeasts, forward! Damn your eyes, move _forward!"_

Arrows twanged, and suddenly the giant had six more arrows stuck in him. He paid them no heed, and Finnar was convinced this beast was possessed of the Bloodwrath. Swiftwake was hard pressed until Finnar was finally able to break free of his own enemies and charge, swinging forward and catching the creature in the side. His sword clanged with protest as it impacted with chain mail beneath the red garments. The sheer weight this giant was carrying must have been astounding. But the blow was hard enough to be felt, and the giant swung out with his poleaxe. Finnar felt it nearly slice off the tips of his ears as he swung his sword again at the beast's legs, scoring a deep gash.

"Weak!" the wolf shouted, and simply kicked out with his massive limb, sending Finnar sprawling. Before the poleaxe could be brought to bear, Swiftwake was on the giant again. With surprising speed the wolf jumped back and avoided a stab to the side, gaining only a cut on the arm. Swiftwake ducked and rolled away from the thunderous counterattack, the poleaxe smashing into the ground, scattering riverstones and sending up a plume of water. Finnar righted himself and lashed out with his sword again, catching the creature on the small of his back. Any one of these wounds would incapacitate a normal creature, but a normal foe was not what they were fighting. This beast merely shrugged off everything, from the arrows stuck in his hide to the cuts, gashes, and smashing blows against his skin.

Finnar ducked beneath another swing, and then felt something grab him by the throat. The creature's massive paw had snatched hold of him, and lifted him bodily out of the water.

"Thy fire is _quenched!"_ the creature roared in his face, and was about to impale him on the poleaxe before an arrow thudded into his arm, and a spear stabbed into his leg, making him drop the otter knight and stumble back. Swiftwake had no time to pull his spear back out after burying it into the thick limb, and fell backwards under the water as the poleaxe narrowly hissed over his head.

"My lord!" Brannagh shouted, dropping the bow he had saved Finnar's life with as he and several other otters arrived back on the scene, counterattacking the surrounding wolves.

"Back to shore, my lord! Run!"

The giant wolf indifferently turned back to pull the spear from his leg as Swiftwake and Finnar disengaged and staggered to the safety of others. But the giant would give them no rest. Dropping his poleaxe, he drew a monstrous sword, and bellowed as he charged forward with Swiftwake's spear in his other paw, only slightly limping from the gaping hole in his leg. Finnar was too far off, and too distracted by wolves to fight back, but he did see everything that happened next. Taken by surprise, Brannagh and the others were caught off guard as the giant bulled through the ranks, aiming straight for Swiftwake's back. But just as the swords came crashing down, Brannagh pushed forward and shoved the otterking out of the way. The sword and spear instead stabbed right into his stomach, bursting out the other side of his body in a spray of blood.

The squirrel commander gasped and struggled pitifully as the wolf withdrew the sword with sickening ease, using it to beat off an otter who tried to come to the rescue. The defenders scattered for the moment, the giant savored his kill. With Brannagh still impaled on the shaft, the wolf _lifted _him up till the squirrel was standing, and gave one little jiggle of the blade as he angled it upwards. Brannagh's still twitching, whimpering body slid gruesomely down the length of the spear till he was face to face with his killer, who had to bend down quite far to get a good look. With the last of his strength, Brannagh lifted his head to look the monster in the eyes. They were the color of blood, burning with rage as though Hellgates itself was alive in them. After a moment of seemingly contemplative silence, with Brannagh's lifeblood dribbling on the wolf's paw, the giant stabbed his sword in the ground and roared in Brannagh's face, sending spittle flying.

"I am your _end!"_

He reached up with his other paw and enclosed the squirrel commander's head with it, then gave it a brutal, twisting wrench cleanly and quickly snapping his neck. With a roar, he lifted body and spear and hurled them towards the woodlander lines, where the proud commander's body went sprawling in a bloody heap.

But the giant had no time to celebrate his victory. Finnar, in a fit of vengeful rage, had charged in while the creature was distracted and shoved a javelin into the monster's hip, trying to sink it as far as it would go. The giant bellowed and staggered back, twirling his giant sword. Finnar barely had time to lift his shield before it was riven with a heavy blow, knocking him back into the water. Elsewhere, horns were blowing. Of victory? He couldn't tell, and was too distracted to find out.

When the knight regained his senses he tucked and rolled, almost leaving his tail behind as the sword smashed into the water next to him. At that point it was a scramble for survival. Finnar was the only creature left in the river to face the giant, but fortunately his wild, maddened swings kept other wolves at bay as well. He leaped back for the safety of the shore, the water churning around his powerful legs, sliding his shield onto his back as he went. Strangely, he heard no sounds of pursuit.

He spun about to check on his foe just in time to see the wolf standing in the middle of the river, and rip the javelin from his side, preparing to hurl it. That was why Finnar never let his eyes off his enemy for too long… simply exposing your back and fleeing was an invitation for death. The giant stumbled as he prepared himself. The javelin must have incurred a deeper wound than he thought. But there was no way he could just run now, the javelin would impale him through the back unless he kept an eye on it, he couldn't take the chance the giant's aim would be off. There was only one chance. He spread his paws and waited.

The giant steadied himself, and took one lumbering step forward, and hurled the javelin. It arced through the air, covering the distance with frightening speed. But Finnar did not move.

_Wait for it._

He stood still, tensing his muscles as he saw it curve up, then down in a shallow path, speeding towards him, aimed about at his left eye…

_Now!_

He spun with lightning speed, throwing his paws up and to the side, feeling the rush of air as the javelin's blade sliced by, callused paws brushing over hardened wood… and clenching, tightening, _catching _the projectile as it tore through the air.

He spun _with _the javelin's momentum as he caught it up in his paws, finding the force almost too much to bear. He had to spin around twice to absorb the speed, but he had the presence of mind to send the wolves a message with his awesome feat. He roared aloud and twirled the javelin overhead, then brought it down, burying the tip in the mud at his footpaws. He stood up tall, breathing hard and heavy as he glared daggers at the wolves across the river. They watched in amazement for a few moments, before all of them, including the giant, turned away to go back to the opposite shore.

He couldn't believe it. They were _retreating._ Why? Hadn't they been on the verge of winning? He turned around to see the trees filled with… squirrels. Armed ones, cheering and celebrating with their woodlander allies.

"Sir knight!" the one-eyed hedgehog from yesterday's meeting. "Tis a miracle! Lord Hoster's troops came in from the woods at last! We've pushed the wolves back! We've _won!"_

Finnar remained on the bank of the bloodied river, surrounded by bodies, some still moaning for help. He looked down at the javelin he had snatched. What a feat that was. He hadn't caught a spear in mid-air for some time now. Hopefully it would let the wolves know not all woodlanders were easy to kill.

He looked farther downstream where Commander Brannagh's body lay, torn and wrecked by the suffering inflicted on him by the wolf giant. He reflected on how close they'd come to losing. How very nearly they'd all been massacred by that creature. If the wolves had warriors like that on their side… what else were they hiding?

"Aye. We've won," he said in a weary, gruff voice. "For now."

------

A/N: Well, didn't I promise this story would kick into high gear? Hmm? Didn't I? I hope it wasn't too shocking. Rest easy in Dark Forest Commander Brannagh. We'll be hard-pressed to find a replacement for you.

… Okay, so I just needed someone to die in a totally brutal and awesome way and, well, he was on the list! But I can't believe it's been over a month. I'm sorry loyal readers. I plead, er, finals, papers, presentations, all that goody school stuff before the semester is out. November is a terrible month for writing. I hate autumn. Oh, and catching a spear in midair _is_ possible to do in real life. I saw the video. So yeah. Finnar rocks out loud even _in the real world. _His battle cry is a rendering of an Irish battle cry that means "Clear the way!"


	21. Chapter 21

A/N: Testament to how long it takes me to update: Fort Brightriver Castus and Raya are in is actually called Stoneridge! Or was when I was writing consistently. So now it's called Brightriver. Don't worry about it. I'll edit earlier references later just DON'T SAY I MESSED UP CAUSE I TOTALLY DIDN'T.

You try juggling anatomy, chemistry, and neurobiology and see if you can take time off to write!

* * *

"They're back! They're back!"

The joyful call went up through Fort Brightriver like a wave advancing on a shoreline. It grew, at first from a few sentries in the towers, to the walls, trickling down into the rest of the fort, flowing through the tunnels dug into the rocky hill that Brightriver was perched upon.

Castus immediately sat up from his dozing on a bench just outside the keep, and began falling all over himself as he rushed to the gate. It had been several days since the army column had marched forth to do battle with the wolves, and though they knew their victory had been secured, it was unclear how decisive the battle had been, or how much of the small army was left after all the fighting. They had left Finnar over a week ago by now, and he was more than anxious to hear news about their savior and the state of the war itself. Ever since they had been abandoned to fend for themselves by Kirrhae, they had been stuck in limbo, unable to adjust to the fort's quiet, but stressful environment, and unable even to consider leaving. The countryside was mostly free of refugees by now, but that didn't mean they could just wander off on their own. They had heard the rumors of the vermin bandits growing ever worse to the south, and knew that the roads were not safe or organized. Finding their families in this mess of a land would be akin to finding a particular leaf on an extremely large tree. There had been no question in their minds that sticking with Finnar was their best chance at survival now, but that did not quiet the nagging doubts in the backs of Castus and Raya's heads.

Gander had been bouncing off the walls ever since they arrived. The shrew was extremely close and loyal to the otter knight, and had been at first devastated, then angry, then just plain restless after being sent off by his master. Though he had tried to hide his discomfort, Castus and Raya had begun to get used to his mood swings. One moment he could be distracted with something that occupied his attention fully, and the one wrong word could set him off on a rant or an arguing fit. In fact, arguing seemed to be his favorite way to pass the time, always finding something to bug Castus and Raya with.

"This soup tastes like a crow spat in it!" he'd say. Or, "Why do you think some stars twinkle more than others?" Or Castus' favorite so far, "There is _entirely_ a difference between a shrew's tail and a mouse's; you're just too thick to see why ours are better!"

Castus and Raya had found that inevitably Gander found some reason to disagree with either of them, only conceding certain parts grudgingly or with great reluctance. He was certainly living up to a shrew's reputation of being argumentative, and this was all exaggerated by the cramped conditions of fort living. The most confounding thing that Castus could see was that Raya and Gander seemed to still be getting along, their stubborn natures providing veritable hours of entertainment over the smallest of points. Many were the times they'd sit eating dinner together and Castus would act as an unofficial arbitrator of whatever his friends had found to disagree upon. Unfortunately there was little else to do at the fort besides talk. Of course they could come and go out of the gates any time they wanted, but they were always afraid they'd go too far and the enemy would be upon them without warning, and there was nothing outside of interest left. Gander would often practice his swordplay by himself or with other soldiers, Raya would try and better his instrument playing, and Castus would climb or run or do anything else to keep active and in shape.

It was amazing, really, how quickly one found enjoyment in the smallest and least important of activities when one knew that there was nothing else to occupy their time. Castus almost wished he were back in the woods, walking and talking and at least feeling like he was going somewhere.

Lord Hoster and Nyana Swiftwake had been working hard to keep the civilians moving and out of the vulnerable hill and grass lands around the fort, and there was only a small population left to do the tasks soldiers could not, such as maintaining all the basic amenities of food and clothing. Castus himself found a friendly ear in the head cook at the fort, the lone hare in this region by the name of Penaig Terwillig Cormaine Fentworth. He was a fat creature that pretended to be surly, but could never keep up the façade in the face of beasts complimenting his cooking.

But now everything, from arguments to snits to jostling in line for lunch, was completely forgotten. They had conquering heroes to welcome back to the fort, who had proven that the wolves could be beaten. Castus remembered the first time they had heard about the victory at the White Fords, how a joyful sparrow had returned and told them all of the smashing victory, how over a thousand wolves had been slain, how Khunig Swiftwake himself had fought and defeated an enemy champion. It was all very fantastical and worthy of an epic song of some sort, and Castus had been enamored at first by the enthusiasm and cheer that swept through the fort in the wake of the messenger. After that it had just been several days of keyed up, anxious waiting for the conquering heroes to come back and greet their wonderful victors.

"Up here, up here!" Castus called as he scampered past Gander and Raya, who being short and unable to match the stature of those around them simply couldn't find a good place to jostle for and get a good view. Everybeast in the fort seemed to be turning out, and it would be impossible to see anything from on the ground. Recently Castus had taken to alighting on the walls in order to get good views and find time to think. Of course he was sometimes shooed off by guards and sometimes not; their security seemed to shift depending on whose duty it was. Castus noted a particularly friendly guard was a mole by the name of Grunndug, middling in age but quite stout and strong looking. They weren't worried about spies or even not being able to spot the enemy coming, as it was obvious the vermin had no love of the wolves and would never work with them, and one youngster on the wall didn't obstruct anybeast's view.

The three of them charged up a nearby stairwell inside one of the towers, pelting along the wall's walkway before skidding to a halt just above the gate, right in time to see the leaders of the army coming back to triumphant cheers.

Castus could see the tall, muscular form of Khunig Swiftwake heading the procession, dressed in a minimum of royal regalia so as not to seem boastful, followed closely by his generals along with a choice bodyguard of foot soldiers, over six score beasts all told. The majority of the army had remained behind to guard the fords, just in case the wolves came again. Swiftwake looked very pleased with himself indeed as the crowd parted before him, bowing graciously to everybeast he locked eyes with.

Behind the happy troop came Sir Finnar, wearing a look of guarded happiness, as though there was something he had overlooked and was now mulling it over thoughtfully. Though even he couldn't miss Gander's excited shouting of his name, and he looked over his shoulder to wave at his young charges, glad they had some time to appreciate the taste of victory. He had a painful feeling they wouldn't get to enjoy it for long.

Nyana Swiftwake stood at the rear of the crowd with Lord Hoster, who had his retinue of squirrel captains, Kirrhae included, at his beck and call, waiting patiently for their turn to greet the North's newest hero. Over them all loomed the gruff form of Brenda McGillyhall, who watched everything with a hawkish gaze.

"Daughter," Swiftwake said as he came up to the future queen. Nyana attempted to bow low, but her father wouldn't have it.

"Stand up, daughter! This is a happy day. We've proven the wolves aren't as invincible as we thought."

Nyana was beaming when she stood back up and hugged her father.

"I'm just glad you're safe," she said into his ear.

"Was there ever any doubt?" Swiftwake replied with a boisterous smile.

"With this victory the other lords cannot deny us troops to aid in our defense," Lord Hoster cut in proudly. "Swiftwake, you have helped show the whole North that we are not out of this fight."

"'Bout time I say," Brenda interrupted with her usual audacity. "A fair rammy was just what this place needed. Almost went rockin' mad wi' all th' footerin' an' bletherin' goin' on. Only thing ta' do was get buckled!"

"Morale certainly was flagging with the lack of hope and things to do," Nyana translated. "We're all happy to hear you pushed them back. You did push them back, right?"

"Aye, the foe was thrown over the fords. But I can't say it wasn't at great cost," Swiftwake said darkly. "We lost near five hundred, and almost that many wounded. As well as your Commander Brannagh. M'sorry, Hoster. He died fightin'."

Hoster's expression was unreadable. Behind him, Captain Kirrhae breathed in sharply and cast his eyes to the ground.

"He will be sorely missed, and given a proper burial befitting such a capable warrior," Hoster murmured. Brannagh had been one of his favorites, and always a source of good counsel.

"An' th' wolves?" Brenda asked.

"We counted about eight hundred dead after it was all over, and many more wounded… although the wolves left most of their crippled behind in their haste, in a vain attempt to keep us off their backs. We finished them off quickly. We even sent a few scouts deeper inta' the woods ta' make sure o' their positions a day or so after the victory. They found large campsites left as though in a great hurry, no sign o' the monsters for miles, 'cept their stink o' course! They've run all the way back inta' the Greymarch, can you believe it?"

Hoster nodded gravely. "Then this is the time to take back the initiative. We must send word to every leader, everywhere, as soon as possible, to attack!"

"Are you sure, father?" Nyana cut in quickly, trying to check Hoster's fiery enthusiasm (which he did not look happy about). "Are you sure they've gone?"

"I've never seen an army's remains in more disarray," Swiftwake replied with a shake of his stocky head. "The wolves 'ave gone, I'd bet my affidavit on it. They left a bit of a rearguard north o' the fords, but we easily mopped it up. Other than that they seem ta' be in flight."

Nyana didn't look quite convinced, but she didn't get the chance to voice any objection. Swiftwake had turned back to the gathered troops.

"I think we 'ave celebrations ta' attend to now! Am I right?!"

He was answered by a lusty roar of approval. Finnar, who had just been about to go and tell his side of the story, stopped short with a heavy sigh. He'd have to wait until later tonight, and Swiftwake and Hoster would be drunk with victory and ale. In spite of their great victory, though impressive, it had decided nothing except that the woodlanders were in a position to counterattack. It was an incredibly tempting target, to gather a fresh army and smash the barbarian wolves while they were disorganized and reeling from a stiff defense. It would be something that bards would sing of and armies would rally behind.

_Everybeast wants to know their story will be written. That they are the hero that will make an impact, that their lives will be the important ones. It's not an evil desire. But it can lead to pride and great folly before you're even aware of it._

Of course it would be out of turn to walk up and lecture the Khunig and the Squirrel Lord with pedantic words of wisdom. He looked around for a place to put down his heavy equipment, and was greeted by Gander flinging himself at him, Castus and Raya close on his heels.

"Sir Finnar! I'm so glad you're back!" his squire exclaimed, wrapping his arms around Finnar's waist. "Did you kill many wolves? Do you need me to carry anythin'? Are you hungry?"

"Can we leave yet? Is it safe?" Raya asked.

"What was it like?" Castus interjected.

"Slow down there, you three!" Finnar said, ruffling the shrew's fur between the ears. "First things first. Take these and put them in my room." He handed most of his weaponry to Gander. "And yes, I'm absolutely starved. Can't wait for the feast."

"There's some salad and soup left over from lunch," Castus suggested.

"Excellent! Come, come, everybeast, we'll talk over full bellies."

It was hard to find a good spot in the dining hall, as now everybeast was running about making ready for a grand celebration to hail the victory of the North. Finnar guzzled down a large bowl of lukewarm vegetable soup quickly, feeling the anxious gazes of the youngsters on him. He plopped the bowl down and cleaned his whiskers. It was amazing what well made food tasted like after even just a few weeks of enduring his plain cooking.

"First of all, I'm sorry boys, but I don't quite know the full situation. The wolves are gone, yes. But the war isn't over, not by far. We haven't got updates from the south yet, I suspect?"

"Nothing so far," Castus said sullenly. "Nobeast seems to know anything around here."

"Firedale Keep is where most of the mail would end up, and even then it would only be the most important in these troubled times. Hares are sparse here, and the birds like to keep to themselves, so it'll be some time. I haven't got a good feeling, boys."

"I haven't had a good feeling in weeks," Raya griped, resting his head on his paws. "And _none _of the beds are comfortable here either, _and_ they just keep telling us to wait, wait, wait. I'm sick of waiting."

"Well, unfortunately, there's nothing we can do at the moment. I am needed here. Nyana alone will not talk sense into Hoster and Swiftwake. They want to capitalize on their victory and assemble an all new army to take the fight to the wolves."

"You don't think they're really gone?"

Finnar fixed Castus with a sharp, grim stare.

"I saw a demon at the fords," he murmured. "A beast that made himself appear as a monster from Hellgates. The way he fought, the way he looked, it was… unlike anything I've ever seen, in all my seasons of wandering. And the way they always threw ourselves at us convinced me this is not just a regular war. The wolves are _not _simple barbarians. From what I've seen they are bold, audacious, and completely devoted to what they're doing. Perhaps they believe they're fighting for the good of all their kind, taking back the lands they once had centuries ago. This is… not what Swiftwake and Hoster think it is. The whole land is at stake. Not just the Greymarch. I can't put my claw on it, more's the pity, but I've a feeling this is just the start."

He patted their shoulders.

"Well. Don't listen to me go on about doom and gloom. We have a party to think about."

----------

And what a party it was. Nearly the whole population of the fort was inside Brightriver, filling all the available spaces with laughter, noise, and good cheer. The dining hall was packed with beasts, and the grounds outside were a scene of dancing and revelry. Outside the fort, the little farming villages and camps also had campfires glowing. Everybeast was enthralled with the idea of the wolves in flight. Even the messenger birds that had to miss the celebrations flew with wings that felt all the lighter.

Castus found himself in the midst of the crowd inside the dining hall, jostled about as he struggled to make it back to Gander and Raya.

"Whoo! What a turnout," Castus exclaimed as he dropped down his plate of food, mostly simple salad and simple dishes of stew and fish caught from Brightriver's waterways. A military fort after all could not be expected to have exceptional cuisine cooking, though Penaig had really attempted to outdo himself by throwing in onions, garlic cloves, and other oddities that made for a sensational flavor.

"It's incredible, isn't it?" Raya remarked, twirling his flute in one paw. Music was everywhere, from the front to the back to outside. Beasts were letting loose with their creative inspirations. After all, on the march there was little else to do but find small ways to entertain oneself, and self-taught musicians seemed common in the scattered woods of Greymarch. A great variety of styles and rhythms from a hundred different small villages echoing off the walls created a raucous, joyful atmosphere.

"I mean, just yesterday we were huddling in our beds wonderin' if we'd ever see the sunrise. And now everybeast looks like we've just reclaimed the whole Greymarch."

"Well… I dunno what to think, Raya. I just know we're safe, for now at least. I know what Finnar said, that he knows this isn't over. But…" He raised his paws and shrugged. "We haven't felt safe in so long. It's not a crime for somebeast to try and feel that way, even if it isn't true. It's how you keep up hope."

"It's almost like lying," Raya grumbled. Castus grinned and elbowed him playfully.

"And here I thought you were the king of fibs!" Raya replied with a good natured punch to the shoulder. "You know what I mean," he said, and sighed, waving his paws like he was conceding some hard-fought point. "And I know what_ you_ mean. So saying anything will just give us answers we already had. Sometimes it's a wonder we even talk at all. We always find out we understand each other before we've even said anything."

Castus smiled and put a paw on Raya's shoulder. "Because we're friends. We talk so we can honor what's different and enjoy what's alike. But being friends means knowing what you don't even have to mention." You and me…" He shifted his weight and lowered his voice to a deeper, more thoughtful tone. "Sometimes it's like we were made for each other."

The two of them sat in thoughtful contemplation after that, considering what was said. It was true that they had hit it off without much rapport between them. They had simply bumped into each other and… stuck. Like they had always known they'd go well together. Neither of them had given it much thought until these troubled times, and even now it was striking to think about. What else was there to say after a revelation like that?

Raya suddenly rapped Castus' paw with his flute, making him withdraw it from his shoulder.

"Did you get that out of your books n' stories?" he asked sharply. Castus shrugged and looked demurely at the table.

"Well… maybe a bit. But I was being honest."

Raya laughed. "Well I don't need no books to tell us we're good friends, so quit getting all sappy," he said with a grin, playfully punching his friend in the shoulder. "Now pass me some honeyrolls, mister heroic poet. I've had a sweet tooth for weeks and I'm going to appease it!"

----------------

Finnar sat in silence near the back of the hall, placed nearby Khunig Swiftwake and the other leaders that had gathered here. Everybeast had heard about his implacable determination and skill in battle, how he alone had withstood the giant wolf's onslaught after Brannagh had been so brutally and tragically cut down. But he kept his distance, watching the proceedings from afar.

Khunig Swiftwake sat with his supporters and Lord Hoster, having a grand old time as his pretty daughter sat next to him with a somber face, listening to him regale the others with war stories and remembering times of peace.

Gander sat next to him scarfing down food but still trying to maintain the professional air that Finnar always carried, mimicking his sharp gaze and straight posture dutifully.

"They look like they're having fun," he said.

"They are. Of course they are. They're flush with victory, one that was not supposed to happen. I just hope they don't let it get to their heads."

"That one looks like it has."

Gander nodded towards Brenda. Nyana's neutral attentiveness only underscored her bodgyguard's raucous, larger-than-life behavior. She often stood up to give impromptu cheers, belted out rambling Brogue and good natured insults like a professional, and was guzzling large quantities of every alcoholic drink in reach. Either she was already drunk, or she had gotten so used to the feeling that she _always _acted as bombastically as she was.

"All I can do is wait and see if they'll be sensible when I do talk to them. How are you and the boys holding up?"

"They're doin' fine," Gander answered, turning a roll over thoughtfully.

"What's wrong?"

"I just… they lost their families too, Sir. And I get reminded of…" He trailed off and refused to go on. Finnar turned his head on one side.

"You know they might still find theirs, now that this might wind down."

Gander covered his eyes with a paw and nodded. "It's not as though I… I'm jealous, or anything. I just… when I knew other shrews wouldn't be helping the war effort and I wouldn't see them, and then we were all out in the woods alone and-"

"Hold it there, Gander. I don't want this to cause a rift. You know I didn't take you in just out of pity. I knew you would be strong."

Gander nodded slowly, taking several slow, deep breaths, which calmed as he felt Finnar's paw on his shoulder.

"I'm not the only one left in the world capable of being your friend," he said gently. "Go on, you've been with them this long, haven't you?"

Gander looked up at the knight with wide, anxious eyes. He seemed to be trying to think of something to say, but nothing would come to mind.

"Go on," Finnar said again. "You'll never know acceptance again if you don't go forward. Besides, I have lots of boring talk to listen to. Enjoy better company than me, that's an order."

Gander chuckled under his breath. "Yes, sir." He saluted and stood up, going over to Castus and Raya. Finnar watched closely. In spite of Gander's misgivings, the otter saw the mouse and the squirrel accept him with any question at their spot at the table; all of them merged their company like it had never once been in question. Strange, he thought, how quickly friends could be made. One day a door in the heart was opened without a second thought, and then everybeast was welcome. Finnar knew Gander hid much behind his irascible temper, and he was glad to know he had taken trustworthy boys like Castus and Raya under his wing who could help the young shrew feel he wasn't as alone as he believed. It had been an ugly sight when Finnar stumbled on Gander's former camp. Wolves had come and gone, sure signs of their ferocity lying bloodied in the dirt, and tree rats scavenging what was left.

It would be quite a bit of trouble finding the families of Castus and Raya, but Finnar had never been one to drop his responsibilities, which included trying to give the Northern lords counsel in this precarious time. He didn't even flinch at the monumental tasks he set before himself. It was just the way he was, always looking for new challenges to overcome with the same quiet nobility, as befit a true knight. He stood up and moved towards Swiftwake's table, determined to make this work.

Once in his life was more than enough to disappoint the ones he cared about. Never again!

----------

Nyana saw the knight coming before anybeast else. She hadn't seen much of the seasoned warrior, but apparently his prowess had stood out during the battle of the fords, and throughout the entire invasion. He certainly fit the image of a truly heroic beast who could fend off entire hordes in defense of the innocent: tall, broad shouldered, and ruggedly handsome. She certainly could have used more of those growing up, instead of empty-headed flatterers and meek lackeys who shied away from her very approach! Brenda saw Finnar coming up and stood up as straight as she could with the ale in her system, posturing. Nyana believed that she was taking her job as bodyguard a little too seriously… then again there was little else for a seasoned warrior like her to do here.

Nyana nudged her father's elbow, making him look up from his deep conversation with Skipper Rogan, who had a new, jagged scar on his neck from a wolf's long dagger. He wore it with pride, not bothering to hide it with his tunic's collar. Did they really take that much pride in how they fought and died? She supposed they needed a way to make themselves feel like it was all worth it.

"My lords and ladies," the knight said with a polite bow as he approached the table.

"Ah, one of the heroes of the evening," Chirchid the mouse lord said, raising his wine goblet. He seemed to be more inebriated than usual, quite pleased that he got to share in the spoils of victory and yet keep his fragile self out of most of the fighting.

"Hardly my lord," Finnar said with another modest bow. "I simply went where I was needed."

"You have a better sense of duty than most lords of the North!" Hoster remarked. "If they withhold troops now, everybeast will see them for the cowards they are."

"That's partly why I came to speak with you all. We still do not yet know the full situation to the south," Finnar reminded him. "They might be busy defending their own lands from lawless vermin."

"He has a point," Nyana spoke up quickly, grabbing on to anything that kept her father's hot temper in check. _"Have_ we received news from the south yet?"

"Nothin' major," Swiftwake said, swishing his cup. "I doubt it's as bad as they say. Probably makin' excuses so they don't have ta' own up ta' their own mistakes."

"Still, it may be prudent to wait," Finnar said boldly, not minding the glances sent by all assembled. "Maintain vigilance and watch the borders for wolf movements."

"You came here to tell us how ta' prosecute our war?" Swiftwake said quietly.

"Hardly, my lord. I'm just here to provide good counsel."

"We've no intention of charging off blindly," Hoster reassured him. "We are going to take stock of our resources and see what the best course of action is."

"And what is that?"

"To destroy our enemies."

Nyana saw the knight's muscles tense in the shoulders. Obviously, he disapproved of what her father and his other lords thought of how to fight this war, but they were too proud to see it. Finnar tried one more time.

"Do not make the same mistake as the wolves. We cannot make our forces too visible. If they think we're weak, they'll attack in a place we can be ready for them."

"And if they win _that_ battle, what then?" Swiftwake said. "We cannot make the mistake of not attacking when they are not prepared."

"They didn't fight like wolves should. They never withdraw so easily."

"And you would know?"

"'E wouldn't, but I would!" Brenda suddenly exclaimed. "I've been fightin' these loons most a' mah life. I'd stake my scut that they're not as weak as you think!"

"You would suggest we wait, still more?" Hoster asked sharply.

"Gies a lug, heidy! Ah may be scuppered, but Ahament lackin' in the mental faculties, aye? These wolves be noo' just mindless monsters, ya ken? They've got brains, see? They're lookin' ta' noggin ye, an' they'll do it where they most ken the land. Ya sit 'ere a wee bit afore you gi' it laldy, aye? An' the wolves will be no trouble once their dander is up an' they can wait no longer."

"They're trouble enough now," Swiftwake insisted. "With an army as big as theirs we can't just sit back and wait for them to come to us. We've lost too much land already!"

"If your army remains intact, it doesn't matter how much land you lose," Finnar replied. "It can always be regained, but only if we have the soldiers to take it. You'll lose them in the woods."

"Those are _our _woods, sir knight, not yours," Swiftwake said, jabbing a claw at Finnar. "Do not think you can presume ta' tell us how ta' defend our own homes! We will discuss this in a timely fashion at the proper time. Aye?"

Nyana sighed and looked down at the table, listening to Finnar mutter something in defeat and stalk away.

"You didn't have to dismiss him so rudely, father," she muttered. Swiftwake harrumphed.

"I'll not be talked down to like that, Nyana," he replied. "He may be a seasoned fighter, but he had no right to bring up such talk now."

"It may have been premature, but he's right," his daughter continued. "We can't grow too impetuous."

"Er, more wine?" Chirchid offered, lost in the serious discussion. Nyana ignored him, putting her paw gently on her father's arm.

"You've done so well, father, done so much good. Don't let your pride bring down what you've built up. If you listen to wise counsel you will be remembered much the better for it."

Swiftwake stared silently at her, his face unreadable. He sighed heavily, deflating and looking down at his food. "'Tisn't pride," he sputtered. "It's principle. Every day we waste is another day the wolves scavenge our homes, our farms, our lands! The south can't support this many refugees forever. We've only so long afore winter comes again."

"Which is many months off yet," Nyana assured him. "We'll find a way, but sometimes it's better to stand back and let a forest path reveal itself rather than trying to cut through the very trees."

Swiftwake only grunted and stood up. "I… I need to go speak with somebeast," he muttered lamely. Nyana watched him go, and slowly conversation drifted elsewhere, leaving her alone with her thoughts until a heavy paw descended on her shoulder.

"Yah did your best, lassie," Brenda said, fighting to keep the slur out of her voice. Her tattooed ears waggled reassuringly. "'E'll come 'round, or Ah'll skelp 'is tail somethin' gewd!"

Nyana only shook her head. "I hope it won't come to that."

"Sich a smart lass, an' takin' so much time tah beat sense inta' bauchle crab heads," Brenda replied as gently as she could, lifting the young heiress's chin. "Why not enjoy the night? Find a nice loon an' get some cold drinks down yer throat. Wha' about that Skipper Rogan? 'E's quite a look-see, aye?"

"Ha… half the males here wouldn't even know how to say hello, let alone enjoy a drink with me. I need to figure out how to balance our latest victory with another strategy."

Brenda only laughed off her concern. "Already a heid-the-ba afore you've even thrown yer first stoat in anger!"

"Thrown my first stoat?"

"Ya ken?"

"Er… yes. Certainly."

"Then ya' know what I mean when I say you're too young ta' have these worries on yer head. G'wan, we'll jink aboot an' gi' these layabouts whatfor!"

Nyana sighed, figuring that it couldn't hurt to at least try and join the festivities. Already she could see a couple younger creatures going at it. A squirrel and a mouse had pulled out a drum and a flute while a shrew stood on a table and belted out some old rowing song to much rhythmic clapping and stomping by the others.

He seemed familiar, but she couldn't quite place it. Standing up, she resolved to do as her bodyguard bid. She wasn't queen _yet,_ and anyway, there was very little to do when Brenda was yanking on her arm.

-----

_The Next Day_

"Hmm... Raya? Is that you?"

"I think so. I mean… no… why'd you wake me up?"

"Why's my head feel all fuzzy?"

"Cause we got bloomin' straight drunk last night we did."

"Gander… where are you?"

"Open your eyes'n find out…"

Castus did open his eyes and immediately closed them again. The light burned his eyes. He was sleepy, he found, and his fur felt strange and extra-fuzzy on his paws as he patted himself down. He barely remembered the events of last night, though at least he seemed to be on a bed, as opposed to sprawled over a chair or against a thick, hard wall. He sat up and felt his head swimming, making him lose his balance as he fell over and plopped onto the floor with a loud thud. He barely felt the impact, being too disoriented by whatever he had drunk last night to be bothered with silly things like pain.

"Ugh! What happened last night?"

"Bloomin' drunk," Gander said again. Castus barely discerned the shrew's form curled up on a large chair nearby. Apparently they had secreted themselves away in a small room in the fort, or maybe Finnar had carried them here, he didn't remember.

He stood up and stretched, rubbing his eyes. He remembered singing, dancing, laughing, and Raya and Gander drinking with him going along with it because he didn't want to feel too left out. The next thing he knew they were in this small room with a bed, and playing cards were scattered around the room making him trip and his tail drooped low, and his head was aching something awful. The window looked outside, and he went to it, throwing the shutters open despite the furious protests of his friends. Raya threw a blanket over his head and Gander curled up tighter on his chair. Castus looked down and around, fighting the dizziness and the ache in his head. Apparently it was a window that doubled as an arrow slit under the walls of the fort. The fortifications after all were dug straight into the rocky hill that the fort rested upon. Far below was the river that fed their water supplies.

Castus was suddenly struck with the desire to get some of it to drink. It came upon him suddenly and almost irrationally, but he was intensely thirsty and the idea of getting some for Raya and Gander in the midst of their discomfort struck him as a very polite and noble thing to do. He pulled the shutters closed again and staggered to the door, intent on draining the first barrel of water he came across. He had only the slightest idea where he was going or what he was doing, but he was determined to get some good old fashioned water, cold and clear from a river.

"Be bugh in min'," he muttered to his friends, who only grunted in return as the squirrel staggered out the door, holding his head tightly as he tried to keep himself upright. He supposed this was what the famous "hangover" was that his father Carus had always talked about. Now he knew why he had been forbidden from drinking too much.

The fort was only starting to wake back up from the party it had had last night, with soldiers milling about attending to sleepy, early morning duties. Most of them ignored the young squirrel who skirted and stumbled about between them, and Castus was almost to the kitchens when Penaig the hare stepped out. Hastily, a bucket was shoved into Castus' paws.

"Ah, there you are!" Penaig said with a smile. "Need some help gettin' things cleaned up. Go and be a good lad and collect some water from the stores below, would you? I've not the beastpower to spare servants for it, we're all busy cleanin' up…"

He droned on for a few moments more. Castus' brain, which was still feeling like it had also sprouted fur, only registered some vague mumbling noises and only acknowledged the bucket would help get more water, and with only a few nods of his head he stumbled off aimlessly once again, toppling a chair as he went and barely noticing.

The soldiers around him were nice enough to give him directions as he entered the catacombs beneath the fort and stumbled down into cold, torch lit hallways that were damp and aged. He had no idea why he was still going down into the dark, and he was freezing cold, so he grabbed a torch to light his way and keep him warm. The tunnels had been carved with purpose and determination, made to be an extension of the fort and provide extra room and shelter. Moles and hedgehogs and mice were the main inhabitants down here, and they too paid little mind to the red squirrel who staggered blindly in their midst, the light dancing over his orange fur, which flickered just like the torch in the wavering light. Castus only nodded politely and asked short, monosyllable questions to passers-by, driven by some inexplicable desire to simply grab a bucketful of clean river water. He reached the store rooms and went to draw water from one of the barrels lining the dank, musty walls, until he realized that he was right near one of the exits to the outside.

Outside was a strange sight. It was still fairly early in the morning, and the sun outside was still a searing orange color as it dawned over the horizon, smiting the mist that clung close to the ground with biting, momentary heat. Long, tall grasses sprouted up through the early morning fog like spears in the mist. Little white and purple flowers danced and waved at the ends of the stalks.

All at once, Castus was struck by an extreme remembrance of home. The Greymarch looked exactly like the setting outside, but with trees in the way instead of a vast open, hilly country. It was such a natural looking spot, with the river flowing by, that his heart ached more than his head. He trudged outside, past the sally port and the jaws of its portcullis, and stepped out into the world. He hadn't really taken stock of how far he and Raya had gone, and now he realized that he was, for the first time since he had got here, looking at the rest of the world. The land around Brightriver was wide open, almost making him feel rather vulnerable. To the west rose the jagged teeth of mountaintops, farther south was the entire rest of the continent. To the east was the sea, miles and miles away, and who knew what lay beyond that. Castus was suddenly struck with the realization that he had no idea what was out there. Before he had come here he didn't even know what the world outside Greymarch even looked like. The forest had been his home for so long, and now he was well and truly outside. His tail flickered nervously as he realized that without Finnar, he and his mouse friend would have been lost without a hope in the world.

He continued down to the river and looked down into the clear, clean water, incredibly still fresh from its run down the mountains. He dipped a paw into the bubbling stream and washed his face off, achieving relief from the pounding in his temples and a bracing feeling of wakefulness.

"Amazing, isn't it?"

Castus whirled as his heart leaped in his chest, but all he found was a mouse, a little younger looking than Finnar, but no less muscular and stern-faced for mousekind. He wore a simple bark green tunic. His eyes were the color of the sea seen through storm clouds, and they regarded Castus like a warrior would a potential enemy, or student. He clenched a pipe between his jaws.

"What is?" Castus asked, still rubbing sleep from his eyes and smoothing the fur on his tail.

"All that," the mouse said, nodding towards the rest of the world. He took his pipe out of his mouth and blew smoke, pacing around near the river as he gestured with it.

"All of it," he said again, "is full of death and pain and suffering now."

Castus blinked and looked around warily. "Uh… okay?"

"Well, there's a war, obviously. Not much hope for us left up here. I used to think that we were going to get somewhere with all this. The March was finally about to be tamed, and now this." He waved his paws around for emphasis.

Castus stood up and stared at the strange mouse. The way he walked and talked, it was like he wasn't all there in the head.

"There's always going to be hope," he said quietly. The mouse ceased his pacing and turned back to the squirrel, puffing on his pipe. "Always," Castus repeated. "Sir, I don't know where you've been or what you've suffered, but I've been through more than I ever thought I would be in my entire life. And I'm still here. I've come too far to think that everything has been pointless up to now."

The mouse stared harshly at Castus, and then nodded, eyes glittering with recognition. "Aye, I remember you. You're the boy who started the music with them two mice."

"A shrew, sir. Gander. And the mouse was Raya. I am Castus." He began to bow, but was stopped by a paw on his shoulder.

"Don't be doin' that, I'm no high-falootin' lord, boy," he said sternly. "I know what you're tryin' to say. An' it's exactly what I wanted to hear." He leaned back on a boulder and smirked. "I like to see beasts with a lot of spirit. M'friends say, this isn't what you want. There's always other times, other places. But I chose to make my stand here. As did the rest of you."

"Sir… forgive me, but… what are you talking about?" Castus asked, downright befuddled. The mouse closed his eyes and became pensive and thoughtful.

"You remember the story of the Three, aye?" he asked. "Serno, Eric, Esta? The ones who founded Goldenvale?"

"Of course," Castus said with a nod. "But they're from down south. Goldenvale is a long way away, sir."

The mouse puffed again and blew smoke, gently, so it tangled with his hay colored fur. Castus noticed a band of yellow around his neck.

"The North has heroes of its own, lad. Don't ever forget that. It may be in the paws of evil beasts, but it's still our home. An' one day… beasts with verve an' vigor like yourself will take it back."

"I don't doubt it sir," Castus agreed quietly, nervously shifting weight between footpaws. The mouse continued to ramble on.

"Not often I get permission to wander. Glad I caught you an' your friends' performance last night." He grinned. "You made right fools of yourselves, eh? Your otter friend had to haul you lot out by the tail."

Castus groaned and shook his head. "First time I've been tipsy I think… my head still hurts."

"It'll pass," the mouse said reflectively. "All things do, and everythin' after will always follow it. Give it time, boy. Things will be set right again. All it ever takes is time."

Castus could only nod. The mouse began to walk away, around the curve of Brightriver's hill.

"Make us proud. You've got a good head on your shoulders, lad. Keep it up."

"Pardon, sir?"

"I said _heads up, _lad."

Castus turned and had only time to throw his paws up just before a large red streak smashed into him, bearing him to the ground in a blast of feathers.


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: Well, another two month gap. That was all me. I suck. But graduation is just around the corner. Zip ah dee freaking doo dah, I'm almost done! And that means… TIME TO WRITE! No more catching up on papers, no more late nights studying electron transfer and thermodynamics and gated ion channels! This is delicious, yes, yes! Ha ha ha! HA HA HA HA.

-----------------

_Are you ready to go?_

I wish I didn't have to leave. I always liked it here. But I don't even know where I am.

_Rarely does anybeast. But that is why you must go._

I don't even know what I'm doing.

_Do you think you're special?_

No.

_And so you are. Now go._

Any words of advice?

_Who you are and who you want to be will show the paths you can walk. These things always change. But never let them touch your heart. That is what will choose the right road._

_Go._

---------------

Castus opened his eyes.

"Oh, you're awake," Finnar said from his bedside, lowering a book he had been reading. Castus turned his head, which hurt almost as badly as the hangover he was certain he was still having, and saw the otter put the book down on the table next to them.

"You took quite a hit there, Castus. The healers were worried you might have broken something."

"He's tougher than he looks, astonishing as it sounds," Raya piped up from the corner of the room. He was sitting backwards on a chair, watching Castus begin to squirm about on top of the bed. The squirrel could feel bandages on his head, and now his head hurt twice as much as it did before. And his chest, his arm, and several other spots he had apparently dinged in the fall. Other bandages marked places where he had been scuffed and scraped badly by the rocks on the riverside.

"What happened?" he asked. "The last thing I remember is something hitting me worse than Janus on a bad day."

Finnar looked almost amused as he related the tale. "Pure chance is what happened. A red kite made a bad landing in his haste and crashed right into you. Let me tell you, he came off worse for wear, but he managed to give you a good whack on the head. You cushioned his fall, actually. He might have broken a wing if it weren't for you and your bushy tail."

"Karraak! Little tree mouse do nothing! Get in my way!"

Castus turned his head to the noisy voice and noticed there were many other beds lining the room, with wash basins interspersed between them. This was the infirmary. Several beds down the kite Finnar had mentioned was wrestling with two healers and a guard trying to keep him down. The bird, too, had bandages on his head and neck, though that was not stopping him from battering his attendants with his wings and squawking noisily in their ears. All three poor beasts looked exasperated.

"Message! Very important! Get off, or Krachak claw you good!"

"Now just keep down, mate!" the otter guard exclaimed as he pushed down on the great bird's beating wings, one of which seemed to be slightly askew, held closer to his body than the other. "You're not goin' anywhere until the lords are ready to see you!"

"Karr! Krachak waits for no ground beast! Fly far, much danger! Stupid, stupid ground creatures! Off, off! I go nowhere!"

With one last indignant huff the kite shook his oppressors away and settled in to begin preening.

"Thanks for breaking fall, tree mouse," Krachak said to Castus when the healers and guard had gone. Though the glance he sent the squirrel was short, it made him quiver. "Though, normally landings are better, kraar."

"What, you normally land on your bum instead of your head?" Raya said with dry wit. Krachak sent him a withering, predatory glare that made the mouse huddle down into his chair.

"Krachak brave messenger! Fly through storm clouds, arrows, and insults of little mousey worms," the kite hissed. "Cannot blame him for being, what's word… discombobulated!"

Castus could not help but be cheered by the indomitable nature of the warrior kite in spite of his ferocity and proud temper. "Where'd you come from?"

"The South! Goldenvale! Many green places! Not so green anymore, vermin worms burning it all!"

"What?" Finnar, Castus, and Raya said in unison. The otter knight leaned forward.

"What do you mean? What's happened in the south?"

"Kraak! Big plans, big wars, big bad! Vermin worms make warbands, go back to evil, wicked days! Flocks and flocks of vermin, all bad, all starving. They hunt the goodbeasts and burn them out!"

Castus and Raya were aghast, but Finnar merely pursed his lips and settled back into his chair. "So it is war," he murmured quietly. "Everywhere."

"Goldenbeasts didn't know it. Taken by surprise!" Krachak crowed. "Need alla ground creatures, alla birds friendly to 'em! I was the only one to spare."

"What about the refugees from the North?" Castus asked. "Were they caught up in it?"

"Need alla ground creatures," Krachak repeated ominously. Castus felt a sudden pain in his heart and his head, and collapsed back into his pillows. War! War in the South, the last place they could have wanted it! The only safe place left in the whole country, and now the vermin had risen up at the worst possible time. He groaned and Raya hurried to fetch him some water. Finnar remained in his chair, his paw on his chin.

"This bodes ill for us all," he said, and stood up. "I will inform the lords of your message, Krachak. It must be heard as soon as possible."

Krachak began to preen as Castus and Raya looked at each other warily.

"Raya… our families," the squirrel moaned.

"I know," Raya said quietly, and handed his friend some water. "Don't lose hope now, Castus. We're gonna need all we can get."

---------

"I knew it. I _knew _it!"

Khunig Swiftwake paced up and down the meeting hall floor, his paw covering his furrowed brow as the other assembled lords watched him nervously. The brawny otter looked ready to twist some poor creature's neck.

"I knew they couldn't be trusted. Any of them!"

"This makes our situation all the more precarious," Hoster agreed. "We can no longer wait for help from the south. The wolves must be dealt with immediately."

"Let's not get too hasty," a hedgehog chieftain said, looking to Nyana, who nodded in affirmation. "We still have allies to call upon. Firedale is just around the corner, surely they have troops to lend! All the shrews, and Lady Bresna's squirrels…"

"Lady Bresna would sooner hang her squirrels out to dry by their tails than send them to war on our behalf," Hoster sneered. "We have nearly four thousand battle ready creatures here!"

"Not enough to fight the wolves head-on," Finnar said quietly. "And every loss we take is one less able sword-paw ready to take up a blade. One less farmer for the harvest. One less mother or father or son or daughter."

Swiftwake snorted through his nose. "Don't tell us what we have to lose, sir knight," he all but growled. "We know that far too well."

"Then heed my words," Finnar said stiffly. "Our army is too small to help anybeast but ourselves. We must try and find help, instead of charging off into the unknown without intelligence, without proper planning, without-"

"Pardon me, sir knight, but since when exactly did a foreign creature like yourself come to know what was best to do in our woods?" Hoster asked quietly. That seemed to strike a chord with the others, who looked back at the knight who spoke like a lord. Finnar felt the eyes on him, questioning him, and shook his head.

"I was on the front lines," he insisted. "I saw the wolves, how they fought, how they strategized. The true numbers of their horde. They are too many and too fearsome for just four thousand beasts to fight! If we call on Firedale, wait for the rest of the North, we can have three thousand more at our back in _two weeks. _That will bring us to full marching strength, near eight thousand strong! If we march now with our current numbers, and we are overwhelmed… the only to fight a battle, my lords, is to make sure you have won before you even face the enemy. We know _nothing _save the situation is deadlier than we'd hoped. The best solution is to wait."

"Until we are besieged," Swiftwake said, crossing his burly arms and shrugging his broad shoulders as he lifted himself on the balls of his footpaws. "Until the wolves have surrounded us and we have nothing left but to die!"

"I am not saying that we should do _nothing," _Finnar insisted. "I am saying that we need more messengers. Scouts. Information! It lies at the heart of every conflict!"

"Our information says the wolves have fled far back inta' the March, sir knight. I think you overestimate the capability of a bunch a' vermin."

"These are wolves. It is different."

"They are just as barbaric as the rabble Goldenvale currently faces. They will fall as easily as their cousins if we push them hard enough!" Captain Kirrhae spoke up. In light of Commander Brannagh's death along with several other high ranking soldiers, he had been thrust into the unwanted position of one of Lord Hoster's retainers. Finnar glowered at him. Apparently his new position had given his sharp tongue even more barbs.

"Know nothin'," Brenda snapped, waggling her ears so the vicious tattoos on them swirled. "The wolves will nay scupper lahk the wee ratses an' ferrets you've given laldy tae before, lad. Ye refuse ta' see the difference. Yer hubris will damn ye all!"

"We don't need arguments, we need solutions," Nyana exclaimed. "Is there nothing we can do?"

"We must keep the army here. For now, at least," Finnar said before anybeast could cut in. "Without their protection, this fort, and the rest of the lands to the south, are doomed."

"And if the wolves come for us we will be overwhelmed," Hoster spoke up. "Whatever solution we come to, we need to realize that this fort will not protect us forever. We need a force large enough to face the wolves in open combat and end this war before it becomes a true scourge on us all!"

"We 'ave the army we need right 'ere," Swiftwake insisted. "If we draw the wolves out we can smash them. They're all bark an' no bite, the battle of the fords showed us that! In a straight up battle the wolves are disorganized an' easy prey."

"I'm sure Commander Brannagh thought just that as he was being disemboweled," Finnar growled through gritted teeth. "If your path is set, then listen to me just this once. Keep the army at bay. Maintain your defenses. Do not chase after glory!"

"You speak as if you have some other plan of action," Hoster noted.

"I do," said the knight. "I will go south and see the situation for myself. I will go to Firedale, where the lords south of us gather. I will shake them from their hiding tree and make them provide us with reinforcements. Only _then _should we march."

"They won't listen," Swiftwake snapped angrily.

"They _have _to," Finnar insisted, steepling his fingers. "And if they don't then nothing we do will make a difference."

A heavy pall of silence fell over the gathered leaders, each of them digesting the gravity of the situation in their own way.

"Then it is decided?" Nyana asked weakly. Everybeast else merely nodded. Finnar stood up and straightened his tunic.

"Then I shall depart at once. Prepare your forces, my lords. The wolves will not be toppled easily, and when they are gone… well. Our problems will have only just begun."

* * *

Word of the knight's departure and the lords' plans soon spread through the fort. Soldiers braced themselves for the long haul, forgetting any notion that the war would be over soon. It would be a protracted campaign instead of cat-and-mouse as each side prodded the other with scouts and skirmishers, instead of facing each other in open battle. The wolves, for whatever reason, were lying in wait in the deep woods of the Greymarch and refused to face their opponents in open battle. Many, however, were grateful for the pause in the war that had seen fighting nearly every day since its beginning. It would mean at least a couple weeks of rest and preparation, to take stock of what they had and what had been lost. They could hope for messages and news of their families that had moved south to avoid the war, but at the same time it let the mood fester and brood. They all knew what they'd be facing: a total war of a scale the North had not seen in many seasons. After so long of nothing but peace, nobeast was prepared for such a devastating conflict. All they could do was try to keep their minds and paws busy while their leaders tried to make sense of what was going on.

"We have to go with him," Castus decided, sitting up on his infirmary bed. Raya perked his ears, staring at his friend.

"What? Go with him? Away from the fort?"

"Yes, away. To the south. If… if we get closer, then maybe we'll hear something about what happened to our families."

"Two families in the middle of a war, Castus? I'm not saying they're not out there, but thinking we're actually going to find them, it… well, it's just-!"

"I'm not going to give up, Raya, and this war doesn't concern me! Everything I've done I did to try and get us closer to our families. We can't just let this opportunity pass us by."

"Castus… listen to what you're saying," Raya pleaded, standing up and beginning to pace. "You're saying we follow an otter on a mission into a place we've never been, and just _hope _we get news?"

"You're the one who told me to keep hope, Raya," Castus chided him. "Hope is all we've got!"

"Which is why can't just throw it away by running around on a fruitless mission! Finnar's going to concentrate on getting his duties done, not helping us."

"I have to do this, Raya," Castus said simply. "For… I don't know. I just feel it'd be right."

Raya arched an eyebrow severely. "You just _feel_ it?"

"_Yes._ I… some strange things have been happening, Raya. I don't _feel _like we've just been running around aimlessly. We've done these things for a reason!"

Raya crossed his arms stubbornly, his whiskers drooping as he regarded the squirrel carefully. "Castus, as banged up as we've been, I don't think you've been hit in the head enough times to think that _we _of all creatures have some kind of… of reason for all this happening. We're not that special, as much as your stories may have told you otherwise."

"Look, Raya, you trust me right?"

"Yes… up to the point where you start sounding like a crazy beast."

"Well, trust me when I say that I know what I'm talking about. I think it'd do us some good, anyway. If we go south we might find somewhere safer to hunker down, right?"

"I suppose…"

"And you want to not get caught up in all the fighting, right?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"And we have to find our families above all else."

"… Yes. Yes, we do."

"Then trust me, and come with me. I get the feeling it'll take a lot of convincing to get Sir Finnar to bring us along."

Finnar, meanwhile, had received a few messages of goodwill, and hope that he would actually find help from Firedale. Krachak himself had given him a rundown of the situation, saying that only a few roving bands of thieves and plunderers were wandering about near Firedale, but if they came together they could form a horde potentially several hundred strong, a formidable force that could wreak havoc on the lands already bulging with refugees.

"Strong otter worm take heed of Krachak!" the kite said, spreading his wings. "Will not be easy, especially on stubby legs like yours! Must go fast and far, and avoid vermin worms. Beware!"

It didn't take long before Finnar was accosted by young Gander.

"So we're leaving, huh?"

"Indeed," Finnar replied simply, fastening lamellar bracers to his forearms. He would have to travel light, and forgo his chain mail as a result. He instead slipped on a quilted gambeson, and packed a brigandine to be worn over it in case he needed further protection. The heavy canvas and quilt would be uncomfortable to travel in, but it was still cool enough that it wouldn't be too restrictive.

Gander wordlessly began packing alongside him, and the two of them prepared in silence, until they were interrupted by a knock at their door. There stood Raya, supporting Castus who was still dizzy from his knock to the head.

"No," the knight answered quickly before they could say anything.

"Sir," Castus persisted, "please. Just… listen."

"I swore to protect you both. That will not be possible running across a war-ravaged place as the south."

"You aren't going that far!" Raya said. "Just to Firedale, we heard the plan."

"You heard my plan? … You were eavesdropping. On a _lords only meeting?_" Finnar asked, raising an eyebrow. The two young males shuffled their footpaws. Raya jabbed a finger at Castus.

"His idea. Just like the slavers, I swear. Nuts. He's a squirrel after all."

Castus just rolled his eyes. Gander looked away innocently before he could be implicated as well. No reason to let it slip that he had shown them the best peeping hole!

Finnar just shook his head, halfway between amused and exasperated, and returned to packing his bag.

"It won't be safe. The road is long and time is short, I will move as quickly as possible."

"We're no stranger to that," Castus said, stepping forward. "We ran across half of Greymarch in but a few days' time. We're not strangers to hardship, sir."

"You are not warriors!" Finnar exclaimed, throwing down a spare tunic. "You are farmer's boys. Out there we could face anything."

"We faced plenty in Greymarch. More than most others ever will," Raya said stoically. Finnar sighed and shook his head regardless. "I am sorry, but it is simply impossible. Why do you want to accompany this escapade anyway?"

"Because… we must, Sir," Castus answered lamely. "We have to find news of our families. To know what's going on down there. We're both sick and tired of being sick and tired, and not being able to do anything about it. We've just been… victims for so long. And I'm tired of not even standing up to try and change… _something. _You're our only chance, don't you see?"

"Boys, at any other time I would agree in a heartbeat. But this is just not feasible."

"You'll slow us down," Gander said flippantly. "Besides, we'll be back in a week at most! No offense, but you two don't even know how to hold a sword."

"Then we'll learn," Castus said. Raya, who had been about to open his mouth and give a very biting rebuttal, let his jaw drop as he gaped at Castus.

"Wha… we will?"

"We will," the squirrel repeated without even looking back at his friend. Finnar regarded Castus carefully, crossing his arms as he peered at him, eye to eye, hoping to simply glare the youngster down before he had to resort to simply shutting them down. It wasn't as though he saw them as an annoyance or a burden. In fact, he was glad to have saved them, and kept two good boys like them in the world when it most needed it. But the fact of the matter was he was used to being a caretaker, not a baby-sitter. But then, had they not braved the wilds of the Greymarch all on their own, survived completely without his guidance and done things that would have destroyed others twice their age and experience? Gone through slavery, war, and terror in the space of a scant few weeks, done what supposedly only true warriors were capable of? It was a daunting thought that warred heavily with his trepidation. And this Castus, he was a beast that Finnar had his eye on. Not because he wanted to train him or make him into a soldier, not because he especially liked him over the other two. Something caught his eye and forced him to listen when Castus stood up to him. That same hidden strength that had pulled the duo through the Greymarch shone through here.

The young squirrel was entirely unlike his companion. Quick-witted and with a big heart, to be sure, but he had pegged Raya as the one ready to learn the ways of the sword, buff and surly as he was. But Castus had something that his friend did not. In that quiet moment he saw something in the red squirrel's eyes. It was a strange and almost disturbing sight. Castus held himself with his head high and determined. There were no doubts in his stance or wavering in his voice. There were no unbidden twitches of his bushy tail. His arms were tensed at his sides, his jaw was set and his fists were clenched tightly. He did not give an inch when Finnar pushed him, and Finnar had no doubt that he would never open his mouth to complain.

And Raya, well. Raya would follow Castus to Dark Forest and back, it seemed, even if he looked like he wanted to wring his friend's neck for not keeping his tongue in check.

But… he couldn't put them in danger, could he? But had they not already been through so much danger and come through with fortitude that outmatched many of the very soldiers he had fought alongside? Would they really slow him down? Perhaps. In fact he was certain of it. Gander he trusted to do as he was told.

Finnar huffed through his nose. There was something about that young squirrel, something not quite… right. Like he wasn't supposed to be here. In fact he much reminded Finnar of himself, when he was younger. Would it be worth it? Taking others under his wing? Could he really be a teacher, instead of just a warrior?

Could it, just maybe, help himself as much as it may help them?

"I will not go easy on you, this will be an important mission," he said quietly. "I cannot afford delays. At all. This could decide the fate of the North."

"It's why we want to be there, Sir."

Finnar looked down to the ground, then back up at Castus' implacable gaze.

"You'd have to tie him up in a bag to stop him," Raya said. "But he'd just claw his way out."

"And you…" Finnar murmured, turning to the mouse. "You want to come too?"

Raya squared his shoulders. "In my opinion, Castus is an airheaded lightweight with no business even picking up a wheat flail, let alone a sword. He makes less sense than a drunkard at the old Grapevine Inn."

He sighed heavily.

"But… I trust him. With my life. Besides, somebeast needs to keep his paws on the ground."

Finnar chewed his bottom lip, and then gave a single nod.

"We leave as soon as we are ready. Hopefully we can make some distance before nightfall."

--------------

Morning came far sooner than Castus would have liked. The rest of the day was a flurry of preparations and packing. Castus and Raya were given a crash course in all the different ways things could go wrong in the wild while traveling, and made aware that they would not be near a home like Birchtown to run back to if anything went wrong. They had to be prepared for anything, and that meant packing rope, dry and preservable food by the barrel, thick clothes (it was a hasty affair finding spare cloths that would fit them both and serve as good protection while traveling) and learning that no matter how heavy the bags were, they could always get heavier, and never to complain.

"When we leave, we will do it quickly," Finnar had said in the blur of preparations. "We must go in the morning, before dawn arrives, and when light hits, we will take our bearings. We only stop moving at noon when the sun is hottest, and only for a short while. You'll learn more as we go. Including how to use these."

From his formidable array of weaponry, Finnar had then gifted both of them with long fighting knives, and some old belts he had found in the spare armory.

"This is the seax," he explained, letting them look over their new weapons with pride. "It is a weapon long and broad and will also double as a tool that may just save your life. Know that with these, I gift you not only with protection, but my trust. I know you will make these weapons serve you well and never impulsively."

"Great for gutting fish," Gander remarked.

They had no words as they sheathed the cold, deadly instruments and harnessed them with their belts. Castus remembered the way the knife in his paws had sliced into the flesh of the wolf at Stillglade, how easily it had parted his skin and ripped open his leg, how smoothly it had slid between his ribs. With the right weapons, killing was easy. He suppressed the urge to shiver and throw up.

Next they were provided with cloaks and fitted to travel. Castus had only worn thick clothes in the winter time, when he had been forced to go outside. Normally he just sat around indoors around a nice warm fire listening to old stories. Now he was expected to wear whatever he was given no matter the temperature and carry as much weight as he could. Greymarch, he supposed, had just been a preliminary taste of the real hardships to come.

The real surprise came as they prepared to leave. Castus and Raya said their goodbyes to Penaig and others they had gotten to know in their time at the fort, but as they went outside to the gate, others approached them.

Namely, Khunig Swiftwake.

Castus gaped as the tall, grizzled otter approached them. He was much more imposing up close, the squirrel realized, with thick limbs and a stare that could make a beast burst into flame if he glared hard enough. His kingly regalia hung loosely about him, making him look even larger than normal. He made a beeline for the four of them, flanked by his guards. Just the sight of him up and about drew a crowd to watch.

Only Finnar did not shrink back.

"You're goin' ta' Firedale after all," he said, and the knight nodded once.

"Well. I dunno what it'll be worth, but take this. My daughter insisted, said it would let 'em know you're not just another wanderer."

He slapped a pendant into Finnar's paw. It was a bronze medal with a sword imprinted onto it, flanked by rushing waves.

"Symbol of my house," Swiftwake explained. "Show this ta' the lords at Firedale, let 'em know you're serious."

"The Greymarch is depending on you," another, feminine voice said. From behind Swiftwake stepped Nyana, graceful and regal as she could make herself. Castus and Raya felt their ears grow hot. It wasn't said Nyana represented the fairer side of her family for nothing. "We'll be counting on you to bring back an army after all, if you can."

"We will move as quickly as possible," Finnar answered, "but we can make no undue promises."

"You can- you… can count on… us… ahem," Castus piped up, but quickly petered out with a blush in his ears when all the important beasts turned to look at him. Nyana was gracious enough to smile.

"We know we can, and we trust the knight's judgment. Be safe, you four. You go with the blessing of the lords of the North, after all."

They turned to leave, picking up their bags, the three younger beasts wondering at their short brush with royalty.

As they approached the gate, Castus felt somebeast grab his arm among the many others that passed in and out beside them. It was a mouse, with a band of yellow fur around his neck. His eyes widened with recognition.

"You-"

"-made the right choice, it seems," the strange mouse said, and patted Castus' shoulder.

"Do us proud, boy. And keep that head up like I said. Just remember… nobeast will follow before somebeast else leads. Be a solid foundation for the houses of others."

"What do you mean?"

"Hey, Castus!" Raya called, and the squirrel saw his companions were already beyond the gate. "What're you standing around for, hurry up!"

"I was just talking with-"

And when he turned back, the mouse was gone. Castus turned around swiftly, but there was no sign of him. Once again he had vanished. Castus felt a chill run down his spine, but knew there was no time to worry. He didn't know where these strange feelings came from, but the urge to leave had spiked suddenly upon seeing the mouse again. Who was he? Was he real? Why had he agreed to go on this trip, anyway, and where had the suggestion come from? He didn't even know if they would find anything out there, or if it would do any good. Had all the stress just been catching up to him, and he was just dreaming things?

All he knew was that if anything was going to change, he wanted to be there when it did.

He turned and went to his companions, who were already jogging down the steep hill towards the river behind the fort. Beyond it lay the South, the world, their goal, their fate. Castus felt a chilling breath fill his lungs as he took in the wide expanse beyond Greymarch, keeping his pace steady.

Whatever was out there, he was going to meet it with his head held high.


	23. Chapter 23

A/N: I don't really like this chapter, but I needed to get it out of the way. Anyway, at least it proves the story isn't dead! Also, apparently did something stupid and now all of my horizontal dividers are gone. I have no idea what happened, but I'll fix it as soon as I can.

* * *

Frostmourn was a terrible place.

It was a solid, blocky, and rather ugly fortress situated in the peaks of the Southreach Mountains that slid down like a tendril, cutting the land in two. They were not particularly vast or imposing, but they served as a formidable barrier to passage between Greymarch and the forests of the West. The high towers reached to the heavens, scraping the clouds that still belched out snow and freezing rain. Spring had not yet even touched these remote places. Pine trees and other tough plants were everywhere, creating a shrubby, hard-nosed atmosphere, the thick woods choking out light beneath their branches. Many parts of these woods were said to be haunted, the deeper mountain caverns coveting their permanent darkness and suffering no traveler to enter them. Here in the high, cold, desolate wilderness there could hide ugly and forgotten things that had slithered into shadow from the beginning of the world. Only the strong and stubborn survived here. The civilized vermin squabbled constantly with their barbarian cousins, who roamed up and down the woods and crevices seeking booty and slaves. What few woodlanders scraped out a living among the constant skirmishes were little more than barbarians themselves, Gawtrybe squirrels and warlike moles and hedgehogs. The night sky was ruled by ruthless owls who hunted all the ground walkers indiscriminately.

Above it all, Pepin's citadel rose on a craggy slope, carved out of the living rock, surrounded by the dark forest as if the mountains themselves were looking for a way to hide its existence. The high towers glared down across the land, and one could see for miles in every direction. The fortress was old and weather-beaten, but it had only twice been successfully conquered in battle, and only five times ever besieged for any appreciable length of time. It had been fashioned from the cruel mind of Gwallog the Stern, a rat king who had established a reign of terror over the mountain range in ages past. The legends had grown to say that hundreds of slaves had died in its construction, their blood and bones providing the mortar. Vermin warlords saw it as a position of great prestige to be known as the master of Frostmourn, though few had ever reached it, or been able to secure it. As the stories went, Pepin had survived the civil war that erupted in his family when his father died without naming the heir. He had poisoned his mother, pushed his eldest brother off the high tower and left his body to rot in the courtyard, and personally slain his other two siblings. Thus the castle's unbroken history of bloodshed and doom continued.

Frostmourn was a terrible place.

And it was exactly the kind of place that Kaltag loved to be in.

Ever since Pepin had taken over, he had not proven himself an iron-fisted warmonger that dreamed in his tower of glorious conquest. Instead he had opened up trade routes through the mountains, encouraging slave traders and war leaders alike to come and use the fortress as a resting place and trade their plunder, establishing a kingdom instead of a simple war machine. The vermin population had increased, the barbarians were pushed to the fringes, and the Southreach Mountains became a stronghold for vermin ways. Ironically, Pepin in his shrewd and violent acts had found a way to make prosperity out of the horrors of slavery and the terror of wandering warbands.

He looked up at the high and mighty place from the village square of the squalid township that had grown in Frostmourn's shadow. He and his troop were awaiting clearance to come up from the ramshackle town below and up into the opulent fortress above.

To Kaltag, it was just another big stone building, albeit a little higher up than most. He sincerely doubted it held any special power. There was no incredible architecture to be found, though it truly must have taken an immense labor force of captured slaves to hew the rock down to size. Pepin had certainly chosen an imposing spot. But then, that was all the power was, wasn't it? It was all a façade. Smoke and mirrors and deception to make invaders believe that this dark, dank, foreboding place was somehow different from all the other strongholds they had seen.

Kaltag rolled his eyes skyward. Being a fox he was more than well-versed in how to put up a front and he could tell one when he saw one. This was just another building.

It did not take long for them to be the next ones up the large pathway. They had been one of the last groups to arrive, and all the others had been cleared before them. Now, Kaltag had his men drag their miserable train of slaves on up the pathway. There was no resistance. The slaves knew they were beaten, and they were all looking around with glazed, dizzy eyes. Kaltag marched alongside them indifferently, holding the leash that kept Scrut close by. The little tree rat had proven a good servant so far. He set Kaltag's table at dinner and poured his wine and fetched him things, but he might run for it the moment he was set loose. All the others did, anyway. As far as Kaltag was concerned there was no such thing as a loyal slave, because loyalty required respect, and slaves had none of that.

The tree rat was not actually resisting like the others, though. He was so subservient he seemed to be more than happy to be under Kaltag's wing, as long as it meant nobeast was kicking him. He cringed and groaned at the sight of the giant castle looming before them, but after a few tugs from the leash he was scurrying right along. No doubt he had never seen such a structure before and found it downright demonic that bigger vermin had even built such a place. He was used to the tight confines of the forest, the comforting embrace of a leafy canopy. These cold stones, this close and brooding sky, made him wary.

As Kaltag cleared the gate that was set at the end of the path, he heard a shout from below, and several vermin clad in tunics emblazoned with a black mountain eagle and wearing cheap chain mail came charging up the path, bearing a cart and shoving aside anybeast that didn't get out of the way.

"Make way! Make way for the Captain of the Guard!" they wailed, and Kaltag stood by to let them pass. He looked at the wagon they hauled up the hill, and in it he saw a bloodied, broken ferret, wrapped in messy bandages, his face frozen in an expression of shocked terror.

"So much for the Captain of the Guard," he snorted, and continued walking through the gate. The guards, with much pomp and ceremony, straightened their backs and lifted their spears, menacing the approaching slavers. They were all dressed in fine clothes and had helmets with feather plumes in them, and had a swagger in every movement.

"Who seeks passage into Frostmourn?" the rat on the right said, pointing his spear right at Kaltag. The fox growled and snatched the shaft just below the tip, shoving it to the side and dragging the guard forward.

"Those who have done business with Pepin and have come to show our respect!" he snarled in the rat's face. "I do not bow to lazybeasts who drink and gamble while I do the real work! So step off. I speak to Pepin, or nobeast."

The rat was so shocked he could only gulp and command his fellows to stand aside, leaving the slavers behind Kaltag to snicker and throw insults at his cowardice. The fox had traveled too far and suffered too much to simply be pushed around by a mere gate guard.

In the large triangular area that jutted out over the cliff and surrounding village, Kaltag found more buildings mostly made of stone. The privileged lived up here, and two hundred could easily live in the packed spaces. He looked towards the entrance to the inner sanctum and the towering keep, and at the main gate he found the vermin that had shoved by them worrying over the ferret they had dragged in. With a yank on Scrut's leash he went closer.

From out of the castle gate stormed a wildcat. Kaltag slowed his pace when he saw the hulking beast. She was ashen grey with dark stripes on her arms, and easily the size of a wolf, or larger, but still retaining the smooth lines in her muscles of a female of her species. Her stormy blue eyes swept coldly over the guards who cowered before her, and she stalked up to the wagon, looking down on the ferret within. He was barely breathing, every breath raspy and labored. His wide, empty eyes showed no recognition of the world around him.

"He is at death's door," the wildcat said in a voice that was as sharp as flint. "How did this happen?"

"Seneschal, it was the White Death!" a burly but quivering weasel said, quailing under her fearsome gaze. "He came out of nowhere… besieged our camp! It was a miracle we escaped… he took four others. The Captain was the only one we could bring back. The rest were… in pieces…"

The wildcat growled and turned away, then quick as a flash spun back around, her clenched fist smashing into the unfortunate weasel's snout. He staggered back into his fellows, making them all stumble into a frightened heap as the cat lady towered above them.

"The White Death? That miserable excuse for a killer was at your doorstep and you did naught but shake like babes in your beds! No wonder he could kill you so easily! Imbeciles! Fools! Get out my sight, you rabble! And take the carcass with you."

Kaltag knew, in an instant, that this was Pepin's personal bodyguard, enforcer, and advisor, Svannja Longfang. The niece of the late warlord Naraga Wideblade, who had terrorized the Borderlands north of Mossflower for many seasons, she was a creature with a terrible reputation. Her wrath was quick and brutal, her temper volcanic and raging. She lived up to her species' cruelty, though the real danger was her mind. She was ruthless and nasty to the vermin around her because that was what cowed them. What ruled them was her razor sharp intelligence. As Pepin's seneschal, his right paw in all matters, she was loyal to his rule and ran most of the daily affairs of Frostmourn, administering justice and efficiently keeping the slave trains and trade routes flowing freely. That Kaltag knew so much of her and yet had seen her just three times in his life was testament to how tightly she ran the operation.

He approached as the vermin guards carted away their dying captain. Scrut hid behind his cloak and whimpered as Svannja turned her stormy gaze to them both.

"You are one of the slavers?" she growled in a smooth, feminine voice, a far cry from the outburst they had just witnessed. "Pepin has been expecting you. You are the last… I hope that is from hard work, and not laziness."

"Take one look at my train," Kaltag countered. "I have not gathered so much by sitting on my laurels. Can I send them off to processing or not?"

The wildcat swept past him to look over those slaves his group had brought with him. After the long trek up the mountain and through the woods, they were exhausted and beaten down. One looked sick, but that was easily fixed by a blade to the throat and a trip to a fire pit. They were better than some of the thin, diseased things other slavers had dragged in by their collars, that was for sure.

"Very well. I'll send somebeast down to tell your creatures where to take them. For now, you are to come with me, to meet with Pepin. He wants information on what's been going on in the Greymarch."

"Do I get paid extra for that?"

"No. But I'll drag you in by the ears if I have to."

"Lead the way then. Scrut, go back to my wagon and _stay there."_

They entered Frostmourn, the great gates to the keep swallowing them like the mouth of some ancient monster.

The first thing that struck Kaltag was how spacious the gatehouse was. It was not designed to help keep out invaders, but merely to showcase the grandeur of the entrance. At first Kaltag sniffed at the weak point, but it was then he noticed the killing holes spaced evenly in the ceiling, and the small, reinforced doors, cunningly deployed to allow enemies to believe they had reached an easy access point only to lock them into a large killing ground. There was more to this place than met the eye after all. Svannja led him through the winding passageways, which soon opened up into larger halls as they came to the area before the throne room. Bannisters hung from the walls, faded colors and coats of arms, and some trophies of woodlander places that had been crushed beneath Frostmourn's stony fist. Here and there a skull of some great leader rested, or a rusty family sword and whatever else woodlanders placed their simpering, wasted emotions into.

"Remember to show all due respect," Svannja hissed as she grasped the handle of the oaken doors that led to Pepin's throne room. "Or you will be made to."

The moment she opened the door, something short and furry scampered out between her legs and collided with Kaltag. He didn't budge, and looked down to meet eyes with a small, young weasel child, dressed in fine clothes a couple sizes too big. A moment of dawning comprehension passed, where the boy realized he had done something impolite, and Kaltag realized it really was a kit and not some stunted, gross thing like Scrut.

Then the weasel kit spoke, and all thought of it being a good, well-mannered child was thrown out the nearest window.

"Get outta my way, you stupid bushtail!"

Kaltag winced, turned his ears back. The kit's voice was grating and demanding, a sure sign of a son that had been spoiled rotten by his parents and believed with all his heart he deserved every bit of it. He was spared further torment by Svannja reaching down with surprising gentleness and turning the kit to face her.

"My little lord," she crooned. "You were supposed to be in the study, today. That wasn't very nice to run off into the throne room."

"Pepin wanted ta' show me some maps," the kit said, soothed by the wildcat's purring. Kaltag was astonished. Just outside she had nearly murdered several guards who displeased her, and yet here she was being gracious and demure? Anyone who could wear such different masks so easily was worth keeping an eye on, and a healthy distance away.

"Maps, was it? Did you learn many things, little lord?"

"Uh huh. Pepin said if I'm good and nasty, my family will rule the _whole_ thing." He lifted his arms and his large sleeves collapsed down to his shoulders.

"Yes, little lord. Your family is indeed mighty. But you are here so that you can learn to be like your father, yes?" She stroked his ear. Kaltag grew more and more uncomfortable with each passing moment. The kit couldn't see it, but Kaltag noticed tense muscles and a twitching tail on the ashen wildcat. This was all an act. A pure, distilled farce to please this brat. She didn't like him at all, but was forced to kowtow to keep him quiet. "If you want to do that, you must be obedient and learn to do your studies in peace and quiet."

"But _why, Svannja?"_ The kit stomped his footpaw. "It's so boring just sitting and reading books! I want to train like the royal guard!"

"To train requires discipline. Discipline comes from study. Do you understand? Go, back to your room, and find your caretaker. If you aren't there when I check on you, there will be no dessert." She tapped him on the nose in a motherly fashion and sent him scampering off with a swat on the tail. She glared down at Kaltag, whose posture withered to show there was no need for violence.

"Tell any creature of what just transpired, and I will peel your skin from your flesh. Slowly."

She grabbed the huge oaken door's handle and yanked it open with frightening ease. The room inside was a sight to behold. A long, grim, cold place with frosted windows that let in an eerie gray light, a long red carpet was laid out on the floor that led towards the throne, a finely carved and polished wooden seat. Upon it sat Pepin himself.

He didn't look the part of a grim, nasty ruler of an old castle at all. As rats went, he was quite short and pudgy, and looked incredibly bored with just sitting on his high chair. He slouched, and his beady yellow eyes regarded Kaltag as he might a wandering insect on the wall. The crown on his head sat at an awkward angle between too-large ears, and the royal cloak of purple around his form looked rumpled and use, perhaps more as a blanket than a symbol of authority. Apparently, he hadn't deemed this meeting very important, as nobeast else was in the hall besides him, Kaltag, Svannja, and a few royal guards who watched impassively as statues.

Pepin adjusted the heavy, fine clothes that adorned his plump body, and rose up, extending his paws towards Kaltag, stepping down from the dais. His belly wobbled as he did so.

"Welcome, friend of Frostmourn, far seeker and bounty hunter," he said in a thin, cultured voice. "You are the last of your kin to arrive. What news?"

"A full train of healthy slaves, my lord," Kaltag said, bowing low. "Though I admit, it wasn't easy."

"Of course not. The entire Greymarch is in turmoil," Pepin answered, disregarding the bow. "But forget the slaves, tell me about the wolves!"

"You know of them?"

"Of course I do! I'm not lord of Frostmourn just so I can stare at the clouds all day."

He led Kaltag behind the throne, which hid a large table behind it. On it was a map of all the Northlands east of the Southreach Mountains, extending past Greymarch to the sea. It was very detailed, and as far as Kaltag knew, accurate. On the map rested several wooden pieces that reminded the fox of a chess set. There were woodlander figurines and wolf carvings and smaller pieces in different colors.

"It pays to have eyes in the sky," Pepin explained. "The crows and magpies and what have you in this region are surprisingly receptive to helping out vermin like us. We feed them, give them good places to rest, and they fly far and wide to tell me what's going on."

"How do you know you can trust them?" Kaltag asked. "They could work for woodlanders as easily as us."

Pepin dismissed his concern with a wave of his paw. "They know what I can do to them. Now then, as you can see, the Greymarch forest is almost completely under control of the wolves. Do you know what they have been up to besides raiding and pillaging?"

"No, my lord."

"Shame. It would be nice to know if they were leaving or not… I have been looking at ways to expand, recently."

He picked up one of the wolf pieces and stared at it. Then beyond it, through it, at something only his mind's eye beheld. "It is funny how plans rarely go as you expect them to. Surely, those who can pull of a flawless plan are blessed by fortune."

Kaltag had no answer. He remembered what Baron Crooktail had told him; how everybeast knew that Pepin had something to do with the invasion. They just didn't know what. Suddenly the non-threatening, pudgy rat standing next to him seemed much more the master manipulator that Kaltag had heard of. Who knew what he had planned, sitting in his dark tower, watching the skies for signs of change?

"The wolves are becoming something of a bother, wouldn't you say?" Pepin asked. Kaltag's gaze was still and inscrutable.

"They're more trouble than they're worth. I can see they've gone much further south."

"Yes. Yes, they have." Pepin fondled the wolf carving for a few moments and replaced it. "Thank you for getting here safely, Kaltag… I will see to it personally that the pay is divided fairly. I need creatures like you, you know." He turned to face the fox, putting a wobbly paw on his shoulder.

"I need creatures like you to do their jobs and do them well, and let everybeast know that they were done under my orders. It helps my underlings… keep the faith. You've done well. Continue to do so, and you will be rewarded."

Kaltag raised his eyebrow. "Pardon my saying so, my lord, but many's the slaver captain and warlord that's said that to me. It's not a special promise."

"Ahh, but this time, my friend, it is real!" Pepin laughed and slapped Kaltag on the back. "Not many would be able to speak up to me like that. You have a good kind of confidence about you. I knew I picked you for a reason. Which is why I think you'll be very interested in what I have to say next."

Kaltag really just wanted to sit down on a soft bed and have Sheena massage his shoulders, but he wasn't dumb enough to anger Pepin. Not with Svannja breathing down his neck like a rabid badger. He waited for Pepin to continue, and the bags under the rat's eyes jiggled as he spoke.

"Kaltag, I'm going to be honest with you. Not many beasts here are happy with my rule. They see all this… all this prosperity. I own land stretching from here to the Great Inland Lake to Mossflower! And I don't even have to move from this very spot. You know why, Kaltag?"

He jabbed a claw into the fox's chest. "Because I command loyalty. I do it by rewarding those who follow the rules, and by throwing those who don't off a cliff! Or feeding them to the White Death, that's become a popular punishment these days…" He waggled his paw and shrugged, clapping his paw to Kaltag's shoulder. The fox remained still. "Anyway! I think you already know about the little one who's been tearing up the joint?"

"That little weasel thing we ran into in the hall?" Kaltag asked, unimpressed. Pepin's eyes lit up. It was an eerie sight. "Yes, yes! That's the one! Little Jon. Ha ha. Yes. Ho ho… ruthless little snot-nose, isn't he?" His grin exposed many jagged, yellow teeth. Kaltag had to think hard to remind himself that this amiable, execrable exterior hid a dangerous mind.

"Well. He's not my child obviously… he's something of a guest. A hostage. A prisoner. He's here because he's the son of a prominent warlord in this area, goes by the name of Kurzig. Little Jontur is his first son, the younger still a babe… the wife is dead. Of course he could just have more children, name one of _them _heir and so make Jontur useless to me, but apparently he has good taste and actually wants a body to put on his throne should he pass away, not just any mewling whelp to secure his right to command."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Kaltag asked, cutting off Pepin. The rat continued unabated.

"Because like I said, Kaltag, I need somebeast I can trust. I need somebeast who I know will be on my side when the time comes. You know the plans of mice and rats will often go astray, and right now I have a bit of a thorn in my side."

"The White Death."

"An owl that has been hunting and killing the creatures around here for reasons entirely unknown to me. I suppose a group of my soldiers killed its clutch or… something similarly stupid and sentimental. It's one of many problems compounding my inability to extend my rule. The situation is precarious right now, and I _need_ beasts on the ground."

He looked Kaltag in the eyes and patted him on the shoulder. "Stick with me, Kaltag, and I can make you much more than a simple slaver." He tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. Kaltag saw himself reflected in the pale, fathomless orb that stared at him from Pepin's eye socket. "I know you must have done something to Trosk. No, no, don't act so surprised… information is power and I pride myself on always having good information. Trosk went out, and you came back in charge of _his _vermin. You are cunning and powerful, more so than others give you credit for. Aren't you?"

"Trying to charm me, snake-eye?" Kaltag sneered, but Pepin knew he was already intrigued by the flattery.

"Hardly. Just stating the facts as I see them. So, Kaltag, you know I have a great many plans afoot, and many risks to be taken… but if I pull them off, then I will complete a masterstroke of such audacity that Frostmourn will be a stronghold against which no earthly power will soon prevail. And _you _can help me do that, Kaltag. Secure my trust and you will find yourself at an auspicious crossroads. You _don't _want to just be a slave trader your whole life, do you?"

Kaltag's thoughts about these glorious promises were shrewd and discreet. He didn't know if Pepin was trying to ensnare him or provide him with a true opportunity, and his tail was bristling. This was an abundance of information and good fortune all at once, and he knew that though he longed for such things, he was always going to be wary of it at the same time. If he was going to be granted power and lordship it would be at a time and place of his choosing, and to place his future in the paws of others, especially a scheming, naked-tailed rat, would be unwise at best. He opted for the most neutral answer there was.

"I need some time to think, lord."

"Of course, of course… just come to me when you're ready. In the mean time, go enjoy the spoils of war."

Svannja saw the fox out, and regarded her lord with a pensive, knotted brow. "You took to him very quickly."

"Of course I did. I can spot his type from a mile away. Desperate for approval. For power. Paranoid that they might be taken as vulnerable."

Pepin returned to the table, and picked up one of the little wooden pieces that represented himself. He seemed to be engrossed by the subtle contours its maker had endowed it with, running his pudgy fingers over the sanded surface.

"I keep you close, Svannja, because you see the world like I do… you see the truth."

He used the piece in his paw to tip over several others one by one, scattering them across the land.

"The very best shield is one to fight in your place. The very best victory is the one that you alone will celebrate, after everybeast else is dead. You and I need no high and mighty scruples to abide by, we are not fettered by petty whims and desires. I built Frostmourn by myself, and I intend to see it flourish… by myself. Honor, deceit, both are just tools and I need neither when the day is at an end. To win a war, one need only be the last one standing."

He toppled the final piece, and slammed his own back down on the board, snug and comfortable in its solitude.


	24. Chapter 24

"The true virtues of a warrior are exactly what the stories say."

_Tok! Tok! Pok!_

"A true warrior does not kill for the sake of killing, nor in fact does he seek out death."

_Whack! Tok! Pak!_

"Death is a void we do not condemn creatures to with arbitrary judgment. It is a last resort. A final solution. A good warrior seeks resolution, not conflict."

"Ow! Shoot… again!"

_Crack!_

"A knight, most of all, must be a warrior. Not just a fighter. Not just a brute with a weapon. But a leader, a defender, a seeker of justice. Beasts will depend on him."

"Watch your left! Now!"

_Smack!_

"_Ow! _Raya!"

"I warned you, Castus."

"Pay attention, boys. You must learn rhythm and self-discipline before we move on. Go through the forms I taught you again. Once more."

Finnar stood upright, one paw behind his back, the other holding a well balanced staff. He used it to fend off both Castus and Raya, who sucked in deep, panting breaths. They'd been training in the hot sun for two straight hours, and they'd be expected to hurry on the path afterwards. They had been traveling along the roads leading south, passing farmland that paid tribute to Firedale. They went almost without pause, and a couple hours each day were dedicated to developing martial skills for Castus and Raya. The two friends felt out of breath and outmatched by their teacher, who was fending both of them off with the most basic of blocks and parries. Gander looked on from his spot near their campsite, throwing together dinner with their meager rations.

Castus and Raya prepared themselves and spread out on both sides of the otter knight. When they attacked, Finnar was more than ready for them. He knew the disciplines very well, and was able to parry both their clumsy strikes before spinning about and bopping Raya on the head and hitting Castus behind the knees with his rudder tail, sending them both sprawling. They righted themselves and scowled.

"What was that for?" Raya asked. "You know we aren't skilled enough to block that kind of attack."

"Because everything I just told you about being a warrior will not apply to anybeast but yourselves," the knight lectured, leaning his staff back over his shoulder.

"You've seen the worst this world has to offer, boys. Is it really any surprise that your opponents won't be fighting fair? "

They couldn't argue with that, and nursed whatever bruises they had received in silence while their mentor spoke.

"When a beast is attacking you, he's not aiming to impress some swooning maid, nor is he just getting some training in. I don't need to say that he'll be looking to kill you, straight out. You two must have had some terrible experiences before, but to actually fend off a creature who is ready for violence? That is something that exacts a toll many, many beasts are not able to pay. And they will fight dirty, woodlander or vermin."

Castus hung his head, pondering in silence what it felt like to kill the wolf in Stillglade. Images flashed in his mind of a young, scared beast like himself, twisted in pain and mind-bending fear, feeling the horror of being unable to avert his demise. Castus remembered the meaty resistance of a weapon carving into flesh.

"Castus. Pay attention." The squirrel looked back up, trying to hide the fear that his inner thoughts had been discovered. Finnar continued.

"At first, there's no such thing as being 'ready' to kill. It is simply done when it must be done, and the mind faces the reality later, when it isn't fighting for its life. What you must do, before you can learn to fight, is to cleanse your mind of that reactive, instinctive burst. Anger limits your options, emotions cloud your thinking. Discipline and action are what always will expand your abilities. You must _choose_ to kill, overcome instinct and become a weapon rather than just a wielder of one."

He looked between the two of them. "Those seaxes I gave you will be the first of many weapons you will learn to use. In fact, if you want to stay with me, you will have to become just as much a master of weaponry as I am. It is the only way you will survive in this new world we are entering. This entire land has become little more than a war-torn province that will take seasons, even years to recover. You both need to realize that we are essentially trapped here."

"Well that's why _we're _here, isn't it?" Raya spoke up. "Learn how to survive this… this madness!"

"Then it's best if you get back to work. Train, while I speak, and match your movements to the rhythm of my voice."

Castus and Raya shadowed one another and began to swing their staffs with precision and ferocity. Both of them refused to let fatigue be the end of them so soon into their training, and they were determined that after all they had been through, they weren't going to disappoint whoever had been watching over them so far. They were not going to fall easily to the ravenous destruction that was consuming their land. They swung their practice weapons in accordance with Finnar's words. The otter paced back and forth behind them, patient and watchful.

"After the Three had established the Vale, and the vermin had been pushed from the land, it was decided that Goldenvale should be made a place of peace and plenty for all who would live with goodwill towards their fellow beasts. A great meeting at Greentop was held for all the leaders of the land, from the mightiest Skippers to the lowliest of households. It was there they began to work on a great stronghold built in the depths of an ageless forest that would unite the land in peace for as long as the alliance would stand. There the Custodians of the Vale first held aloft their scepter of authority and began a reign over the land, not to rule, but to guide and cherish and keep the peace. The Goldenvale was a place of bounty and sharing, and though vermin have again and again assailed the great, impenetrable forest in which Greentop is nestled, it is said there has never been a place of such great prosperity and peace before… or since."

Castus and Raya came to a halt as Finnar trailed off, looking south with a distant, ruminating gaze, paws folded behind his back. They looked at each other, then back to the otter, and Castus spoke.

"You speak like it's not there anymore."

Finnar turned around and fixed them with a grave stare.

"It's not."

The two youngsters gaped.

"But… but I always thought if we were in trouble, the Vale would send help!" Castus implored, but Finnar's eyes did not waver.

"The Goldenvale Alliance was not to last. The true Alliance faded into legend long ago. Greentop is a fortress guarding an ideal, rather than any actual group of beasts. It is still a beautiful place, full of history and deserving of respect. But that does not mean they have the influence they once did. The current Custodian is a figurehead more than anything else." He smiled, and turned away. "This is not Mossflower, after all. We are a world away from such serenity."

"Well, how do you know all that?" Raya snapped, prompting another enigmatic smile from the knight.

"I've been there, to Greentop. Ah, it was a wonderful place… the Vale is still beautiful and peaceful, even if it cannot call upon entire armies to come to the defense of the land. The fact of the matter is, the Alliance is only now a small collection of chiefs who occasionally fight together, to defend their common borders. There is no Custodian who can hold it all together, and vermin are a constant problem further south. There you have the moors and marshes and dark forests that vermin frequent, and constantly come up north to attack the Vale and its surrounding lands. The woodlanders squabble with each other for authority more than they do with the vermin for land. Much the same as it is here, I am afraid."

"Everybeast with more'n a score of armed beasts wants to be considered a king," Gander remarked. "Everybeast with more than a couple holts or villages at their call thinks they're an emperor! And let's not get started on the castles…"

"The land is more torn than you think, boys. I am afraid the shelter of the Greymarch is no more, and you must learn one very, very important lesson." He twirled a staff and pointed it at them. "Nothing in this world lasts forever. Not love. Not safety. Not life. Look to Dark Forest if you want to find something eternal. Good beasts, no matter how valiant, eventually pass away, and evil ones are always, _always _ready to replace them. And it is that constant state of change that means our vigil as warriors is neverending, and is _never_ accommodating for weakness."

He took an attack stance, and Castus and Raya bent at their knees, holding their staves forward. Eyes flashed, stares were dead-set, and muscles were tightened. And the training began again.

And so they traveled, and drilled, and traveled some more, until their lungs were ready to burst and their legs felt like leaden weights. Finnar pushed them hard, showing little mercy. He had not the time to prepare them as recruits and ease them into their new lives. This was a trial by fire, and there was no room for rest or weariness. They would have to adapt and survive quickly, or they were going to be left behind. Over highlands and lowlands they went, further south with each step. They passed by every village, every fort, every township, asking, pleading, seeking aid. Not a single one would even open their doors, and more than once they found themselves standing before closed gates, shouting at the guards to let them through and speak on behalf of the North. But without the full weight of Firedale Keep being thrown into the war, none of them were certain it was worth coming out of their homes, let alone fight. If the war was not decided by midsummer, the idea had spread to run for the safety of the south, rather than stay and risk going through fall and winter under the threat of ravaging wolf parties.

It was a weary time for Castus and Raya, who had never before been on such a hard, demanding journey. Their flight through the Greymarch was the only comparable experience, and that had tested their will to live. This new challenge put a strain on their resolve to continue onward, to put one footpaw in front of the other, and to hope against hope that they would find the help their home needed. But when every door shut against them, every furtive glance turned away, and even the most hopeful pairs of eyes were dimmed by loss, they felt more than once the fretful pangs of despair. With each village that refused to even consider that aid might be needed, let alone to send it in the form of soldiers that could be invaluable help on farms and dreys and holts bringing in harvest to weather harsh Northern winters, their heads hung a little lower, and their shoulders slumped. It was a chore to explain the fact of the wolves' reality. Many villages didn't even believe them when they were told about the threat, passing them off as panic-mongers.

Their first major stop was the village of Nearriver, located helpfully near the south flowing Donn River that was just one of several travel venues. But Castus and Raya, Gander especially, noticed a distinct lack of boats on the river. Finnar explained that as growing reports of vermin and wolves spreading like wildfire, trade was beginning to be choked off due to the fright the woodlanders were suffering.

Nearriver was a despondent collection of huts and longhouses that had not been cleaned well in several days. Doorways went unswept and general goods lay forgotten in the street. Nets and other fishing equipment scattered about was also telling of their sad condition. Nearriver relied on overwater trade and fishing from annual mating patterns that led the schools up and down the current, and abandoning their yearly duty meant they had given up. Their farming land was comparatively small, and the sight of homes ransacked in preparation for going south was evidence that they did not believe they could sustain themselves. The streets were deserted, as all paws were either out in the field bringing in what could be gathered, or in the small council building from which came the sounds of a great clamor and much dispute. Nearriver was in crisis, and Raya tutted at their lack of organization.

"Mum would make such a fuss about how messy these creatures are," he muttered. Nobeast answered, struck by the sight of empty homes. This would normally be a cheerful, pleasant place next to their peaceful spot on the river. Finnar led them straight to the council building, and pushed open the door so that it banged on the wall, ending the heated discussion that had been going on. In an instant over two dozen heads swiveled around to face the travelers. Finnar stood tall and confident, while his charges huddled behind him.

"I am here to speak with your leader," he announced. The beasts in the hall looked at one another, and then pushed forward a squat, homely-faced hedgehog. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a pair of spectacles, balancing them on the end of his snout.

"I am Markuk, chief of this place," he said, and Finnar pulled out the mark of the house of Swiftwake. Markuk recoiled from it as the otter spoke. "I am Sir Finnar, a knight from the Greymarch. Wolves have invaded the land there and seek to make war on everybeast they come in contact with. In the name of the North, you are called upon to send every able-bodied beast combat them. We gather at Fort Brightriver."

Utter silence greeted them, and grew unbearable before a squirrel broke it. "And… what exactly does Brightriver intend to do?"

"The family of Khunig Swiftwake is leading a defense of the North. He has been joined by Lord Hoster, of the northern squirrel tribes, and several other leaders. There they plan to draw the wolves out to battle, and destroy them."

Laughter broke out among the villagers.

"Destroy a horde ten thousand strong in a single battle before summer even ends?" the mouthy squirrel sneered. A vole joined the heckling. "The wolves were thought destroyed long before our grandfathers were even born. And now they've come back to retake their old land! If the mountain hares, who were ten times the warriors we will ever be, could not defeat them, what chance do you have?"

"They're not _ten _thousand_,_ you dummies," Raya growled. When everybeast glared, he faltered and shrugged. "It's… really only more like six."

"Perfectly manageable, if you'll get off your duffs," Gander added, hiding his comment by scratching his nose.

"Has Firedale decided to join the defense?" Markuk asked pointedly. Finnar shook his head. "No. They have kept their troops at their borders and are helping those who wish to flee move south. But the trouble will not stop there. Vermin are reported to be stirring near Goldenvale."

"We know all about vermin!" the mouthy squirrel said. "A whole band of them has been charging around our land, burning and pillaging! Two families we knew were slaughtered just last week. The roads are not safe. We heard they burned Millrock to the ground, and sold half the village into slavery."

"Vermin? Here?" Finnar snapped at the squirrel, who faltered under his eagle-like warrior eyes. "How? Where?"

"Nobeast is quite sure," Markuk answered. "We do know they are going south, and gathering other bands. At this rate there'll be a new horde before the end of the month."

"And nobeast is trying to stop them? Not even Firedale?"

"Go and find out for yourself!" the squirrel jeered at them. "The only concern we have is keeping our village safe."

"You will find no help here, sir," Markuk said with a shake of his head. "The fact of the matter is we cannot spare a single beast. Not for warring and campaigning. We need them to keep our own roads safe. We received the word from Firedale: return to your homes and keep yourselves and your families safe. If the war comes further south, we are sure that Firedale will send more orders."

"Brightriver will not hold on its own," Finnar reminded him. "There will be no help for anybeast if the wolves are able to break out and come further south. They will burn everything!"

"Firedale will not let it come to that," Markuk said with overblown confidence. He folded his paws into the long sleeves of his tunic. "If anything truly needs to be done, we will move on their word. Lady Bresna, Lord Hathig, and the shrews have not moved their armies. We will not become part of yours."

"And that's it, then?" Castus said, pushing in past Finnar. "You're all just going to say no. To beasts who are ready and willing to give their _lives _for you? How could you say that?"

"Castus," Finnar warned, but the squirrel would not relent. After all he had been through his temper could take no more. He raised his voice.

"You're all just sitting back and not even going to lift a finger? We've nearly died just getting here! I've been through too much to just-"

"Castus!" Finnar barked. "Wait outside."

Castus huffed and left the house, tail flashing behind him. Raya followed him.

"What was that about?"

"What did you think? They're just… they're just going to stand there, and _laugh _at us while we're trying to save lives! It's not right… they should be helping!"

"We can't do anything about it, as much as it boils my blood. We just have to keep going and trust Finnar will know what to say when we get to Firedale."

"He'll just say what he's saying now." Castus took out his staff and gripped it tight to occupy his paws, stamping it on the ground and fingering the scabbard of his seax. Raya did not dismiss how quickly Castus went to his weapons for comfort. He had been the far more excited one of the duo to learn how to properly wield a blade, and he wore them with a confidence Raya had never once seen in him back in Birchtown. There he had been timid, quiet, a lover of stories and staring off into space. But now he was out here, taking to travel and warfare like a natural. Raya was sure both of them were sore, but he had bellyached about it more than once. Castus never complained.

"I hope you have a good explanation for that outburst," Finnar said as he joined them.

"They're cowards," Castus spat.

"And you were foolish," Finnar answered. "If they were unwilling to join us before, they certainly won't now. They don't see past their own farms. It's not up to us whether they consider this small village part of _our_ land or not."

Castus was sullen. "It's all the North to me."

"Then you have a bigger head for bigger ideas than most," answered Finnar, "but that will not inspire creatures to fight. They can't see the enormity of the wolf threat. They just see more troubles like they've always had with raiders and spring pillaging. But it is the vermin that concerns me now."

"What about them?" asked Raya.

"They're the ones who are causing all the trouble and keeping beasts locked up in their homes!" Gander exclaimed, adjusting the straps on his weapons. "If we don't go and kick their tails, we'll never get anybeast to join up."

Finnar looked south. "So our next course of action is decided. We will find no help from these creatures until we help them. We must eliminate these vermin."

It was a simple matter to get directions from Markuk, who wanted them out of the village. The vermin were widespread, but a particularly troublesome band was being led by a huge rat who wore a plume of swan feathers on his helmet. He called himself Skarl Swan-Slayer and was attempting to raise a warband large enough to begin raiding around Firedale. Rumors said he had a gang that numbered threescore already, all trained killers, and was gathering more. Finnar set them off south without delay, moving to the place called Reed Valley. The shrews that had pledged not to budge except on Hathig's word were abundant there, and without Gawjun Sage's word they would not fight, not even to help fellow woodlanders.

"Shrews are fiercely independent," Finnar explained. "They quarrel and fight even with woodlanders, and in dangerous times like these they will look to their own. Gawjun Sage will not gather his army, and so none of them will do anything, if only to keep from cooperating."

More trees and less farmland made up the land of Reed Valley, which sheltered the many ponds, streams, and little rivers the shrews used to live and travel, and gave the travelers more shelter against sun and wind and rain. It was there they found evidence of vermin raids. Smoke was on the horizon in many places, and they passed several armed bands of woodlanders also patrolling and fighting vermin where they could find them.

"Firedale sends nobeast while our homes are already burning," raged a mouse chieftain they supped with in a village that night to take shelter from chilly winds. His arm was wrapped in bloody bandages and his wife fussed about him moving it too much. "We are fighting a war that wasn't supposed to come here!"

It was from the mouse, named Palfur, they learned he and his party had found and destroyed a scouting party from Skarl's warband, which had swelled to fourscore vermin strong. Vermin were never content to be refugees. They were predatory beasts and proud of it, and would not sit idly by when their families starved and they could take what they needed from woodlander farms. If that meant killing a few females and children, such was life. Finnar understood that, but it only made his young charges angry, and Gander raved about how ready he was to find and kill these plunderers.

"Firedale can't just ignore a warband developing right outside its gates," Finnar reasoned, but the mouse chieftain just grumbled.

"Look to our own defense, that's what they're telling us. Whoever's bright idea it was _not _to raise an army at once and quell the vermin, I'd like to get their head underneath my axe!"

Finnar dared not reveal Nyana was partly responsible for helping paralyze most of the North's armies. How were they to know the vermin would rise up so fast and so readily? With Skarl and his cohorts running rampant, Hathig would only grow even more cautious and frightened.

"This Skarl must be defeated in short order," Finnar announced. Palfur blew air through his whiskers.

"We've been trying," he said. "The fact is most of us are just farmers. We've known peace for so long we forgot vermin lived among us, just waiting for a chance to steal and plunder again. Now I'm not saying all the vermin have gone bad. I know a ferret myself who's a real upstanding sort. But Skarl is attracting more to his banner every day. In another week he'll have a hundred and fifty. In a month he'll have an army big enough to lay siege to Firedale itself! He's settled down for a while in an old earthen fort called Storm's End. We don't know why. Probably resting his vermin and giving time to build his forces. But the fort is sitting right on the biggest path out of here, and they're stifling trade just being there! They aren't big enough to cause Firedale enough worry they'll send an army to squash him, but they're big enough that we can't beat them ourselves."

"So they've got themselves trapped in a little mound of dirt!" Gander thundered. "Let's gather some swords and bury them in it!"

Palfur grinned. "I like your spirit, young'n, but Storm's End was built to last. 'Twas made in ages long ago, by the very first woodlanders to come to this land, they say, before Firedale was a castle or even a land. You want to charge up and down solid earth walls and ditches, attacking vermin shields and axes and arrows with naught but a bunch of frightened farmbeasts at your back, be my guest."

Finnar spoke next. "Do we know what this Skarl is like? What his ambitions are beyond raiding and looting? Does he seriously believe the North is so weak he can kill and steal at will?"

"He's a smart old murderer, more's the pity for us," Palfur moaned. "From what we've gathered, he comes from the west, the highlands and mountains. Was ousted by some other vermin leader, and now he's making his fortunes here."

"So he'll either be eager to reclaim his lost glory," Finnar began.

"Or cautious to lose it again," Castus finished. The knight gave him an approving smile.

"We need to find out what kind of beast this Skarl is, while he is in one place and we know he'll stay." He sipped his warm mug of tea and set it down on the table.

"It's decided."

"It is?" said Raya. Finnar nodded. "Skarl must be destroyed now, before he can make it to Firedale and prove he is strong enough to challenge the lords there. It will take too long for Lady Bresna or the shrews or anybeast else to send help. So we will meet with Skarl, determine what kind of creature he is, and form a strategy for defeating him around that."

Palfur gaped. "You're serious," he whispered. "You're serious!"

"I am." Finnar looked to Gander. "The shrews of Undertow live near here. Go to them and convince them they cannot hide on the rivers and in their logboats. Gawjun Sage has abandoned his responsibility, and so we must make up for it."

Gander saluted and immediately prepared to take off. Finnar looked to Palfur next.

"I want to know how many creatures we can gather on short notice. Send squirrels and otters. They are the fastest. Tell them to spread the word to every able bodied creature nearby to gather for battle."

Palfur sputtered. "Well, I- ! That is to say-! We're really going to do this, are we?" He gestured with both arms and his plaintive wife, who said little, fussed about him moving the injured one. "We're just going to take the fight to Skarl and wipe him out like that?"

"If it can be done. Firedale needs to be shown that we must fight, and fight together. If Skarl goes unchecked he will spark another war before we can even finish the one with the wolves. This is our only chance, and I plan to seize it. We will need to draw Skarl out and convince him that he can destroy the opposition in a single blow. That will be far too tempting for any budding warlord's ego. And killing him will scatter the vermin. Firedale will have to join the war effort if we defeat him. They will be ashamed not to."

"But then we'll need to destroy _Skarl_ in a single blow too!"

"That's why we need help."

Castus stared at Finnar with a look akin to reverence. Here was a creature who was not afraid in the slightest to do what was needed, to leap to the defense of those who could not defend themselves. Here was a knight who had jumped straight from the pages of one of his stories. His confident smile and utter disregard for the odds made him strike an inspiring figure, even just sitting there at the dinner table. His eyes gleamed with determination under a coat of dust and sweat from their travels. Even Raya, though he appeared daunted by the idea of being drafted into an effort to wrest a fort from eighty killer vermin, did not look so alarmed with Finnar sitting calmly next to him.

"Is he really the best choice to go play diplomat?" Raya asked him. Finnar chuckled.

"It is true Gander is a loud, rude, and altogether unpleasant creature. He disagrees with almost everybeast except me on everything. And that makes him the perfect candidate to deal with _other _shrews who are loud, rude, altogether unpleasant and disagree on everything."

Raya found a strange logic in that and agreed. Finnar continued.

"If Gander brings the shrews of Undertow to us, we will be able to combine that with the local militias and perhaps take the fight to Skarl. If he does stay in Storm's End, it means he believes he is safe enough to make it a base of operations and expand. Maybe even carve out a little kingdom right outside of Firedale, if Hathig refuses to budge. They will have a commanding view of the landscape and will be able to attack and counterattack at will, raid and plunder and then rush back to the safety of their walls. So we need to find a way to draw them out into open battle and destroy them."

"With farmers," Palfur stressed, but he was interrupted by Finnar.

"Farmers who are strong otters and quick, keen-eyed squirrels. Who are stout mice and tough hedgehogs, and angry shrews. All of them will fight eagerly to defend their land. We just need to give them a reason to rally, and they will come. If we do not destroy Skarl, this whole region will fall into chaos and only encourage further destruction."

Palfur didn't look convinced, and his wife even less so, and Castus leaned forward and put his paw on Palfur's uninjured arm. Finnar stood up to begin making plans.

"Don't worry," Castus murmured. "We're all scared right now. But we have the spirit of the North, and we are all good and strong woodlanders. Believing is half the battle, I'd know."

Palfur seemed brightened by Castus' steady, hopeful gaze and the strong grip of his paw.

"I don't know why, lad, but I believe _you. _It does raise my spirits to see one so young still so eager to help in such a dangerous mission!"

"Not so young anymore," said Castus.

The plan was simple, but the execution had much to be desired. Castus and Raya went with Finnar as he and Palfur gathered the beasts of the village, telling them that any and all creatures with a weapon, or even just a sharp farming implement, were being called on to destroy a threat to their homes. Finnar left it to Palfur to exhort and shame his fellows to action, but it would take more than a few empty promises of victory to get them to fight experienced murderers. More than a few found anger and pride to be good motivation.

"My cousin was in Streamglade. I heard tell it's just a smoking pit now, thanks to Skarl," an angry female hedgehog growled. She twirled a loaded sling in her paw. "I'll join, if it means my sister in Swiftrun can raise her family in peace."

"I have four kits," said an otter, stepping to the front of the crowd. "You all know me an' my mate. Two of our children died of the fever. I'll be a thrice cursed otter if I let any fall ta' filthy vermin blades!"

One by one they came forward. Castus noticed that they all loudly declared their reasons for signing up to what seemed to be certain death. He felt they were all trying to banish fear with anger and indignation, gathering a storm of emotions to fight that overwhelming, gnawing anxiety. If they stayed, they might not die, but if they went, they probably would, and where would those families they were desperate to protect be then?

Once again his thoughts fled back to the peaceful time in Birchtown. It felt like a lifetime ago. Drifting on a pond in a little boat with Raya, arguing with his sisters about this or that unimportant thing, listening to his father spin tales of distant lands while his doting mother cooked another sumptuous dinner. Castus felt like those memories belonged to a different squirrel, and he was overcome with a fierce desire to preserve the innocence of those times. He was fighting for his family, and for himself, for the little child that longed only to hide his face from the world's troubles in his mother's tunic. He understood the fear of never being able to see them again far too well. And so he steeled himself and decided not to die until he had laid eyes on them one last time. He struggled not to weep in front of the others as they each showed off their families and loved ones, who they had a chance to come back to.

In the end, they found a score of creatures willing and able to join them. Finnar soon had them organized into small groups. Mice, squirrels, otters, and hedgehogs, and one mole named Trugger, his arms bulging from work as a blacksmith.

"Boi moi likkle moustache, Oi'll foight," he grunted. "It's a roight sad day when a beastie can't say 'e was willin' to put it all on the loine fer hearth an' home, burr aye."

It wasn't enough, not by far, and even Castus could see that, but Finnar sent the squirrels dashing into the trees and fields to gather more troops. The knight estimated that if they could prepare themselves within three days, they would be able to assault Storm's End before Skarl could gather enough soldiers to make major incursions into surrounding lands.

"It is a race against time," he told Castus and Raya as they sparred with each other. He circled them, watching their forms. "If Skarl can gather even more creatures to his banner before we muster, we will all be slaughtered. We must find out how strong he is, and what kind of beast we can expect on the battlefield."

"What kind of fight do you think it will be?" Castus asked.

"Bloody, ferocious, short, and agonizing," Finnar answered. "I will go to Storm's End and scout the area, discover how far the vermin are ranging. I want you two to come with me."

"Far be it from me to argue against the wisdom of a knight," Raya huffed, parrying a quick thrust from Castus, "but what good are we gonna be against a bunch of killer vermin?"

"Not much. But I didn't say we were going to fight, not yet," said Finnar. "I'm trying to educate you two on top of everything else, and learning to see how the land itself can turn a battle is just as important as learning how to swing a sword. Speaking of which…"

He turned to the weapon pile and drew their seaxes.

"Drop your staffs. I'm going to teach you how to cut somebeast's guts out."


End file.
